The Small Inferno
by Terry
Summary: A CDC researcher, U.S. Marshal and a shady convict whose soul hides a terrible secret and the capacity for redemption brave the horrors of Raccoon City and fight to get to the bottom of the mystery behind the T-virus. Read and Review.
1. Quarantine

**The Small Inferno**

**Prologue: Quarantine**

"We received the patient nearly a day ago," Gregory Burke told his two peers from the Centre For Disease Control as he led them down one of the many sterile white corridors that composed the layout of Saint Jude's Hospital. "She complained of a persistent skin rash and painful itch as well as a high fever. After a few hours she became nauseous then violently ill. Hours after that, the patient went through stages of delirium and catatonia before finally slipping into a coma. She hasn't woken since and I should warn you that you will find the patient-"

"Miss Gordon," Doctor Sarah Waxer cut in, brushing a strand of loose blonde hair behind her ear as she regarded Doctor Burke with a cool stare. "The patient has a name. It's Regina Gordon."

"Of course," Burke replied with a smile that left his eyes as dark and empty as a crater on the moon. "Pardon my manners. I meant to say that you should both steel yourselves as you will find _Miss Gordon _much...ah...deteriorated."

"Deteriorated?" Sarah's partner - Homer Shields - asked, raising a bushy eyebrow as he tried - and failed - to subtly re-arrange his lab coat around the spare tire seeping over the waistband of his black slacks. "What's happened to her since she fell into that coma?"

"I could describe it for you," Burke replied, pausing momentarily to swipe his ID card through a reader set into a pair of massive double-doors. With a piercing _beep_ the light on the reader flashed green and the doors slid apart with a hydraulic hiss. "It's probably better that you see for yourselves though. That is what you're here for after all, correct?" Again that mirthless smile crawled across Burke's lips like a lizard lounging in the sun. "To see?"

_To see? No, to interfere - at least in your mind, Doctor Burke. _Sarah said nothing, only gave Burke another look as chilly as his smile and waited for him to resume his duties as pathfinder. After a moment, the hawk-nosed physician took the hint and started up the hall once again with his back to them. She took the opportunity to flash him the finger through the pocket of her lab coat.

Though she had been forced to suffer Burke's company only three times since been assigned to Raccoon City by the CDC brass, Sarah Waxer had decided quite quickly that she cared nothing for the man. Gregory Burke wore his arrogance like a jacket, putting it on display for all to see. From that smug little glint in his eye when he was answering a question to that icy grin of his there was something about him that just seemed to scream "Look at me, mortals! Look at how much smarter I am than you lowly creatures! Look and marvel!"

Homer had laughed the first time she had told him as much. The senior microbiologist had remarked that perhaps Doctor Burke should take to wearing a name tag that read _Jesus Christ, M.D. _"Too bad he hasn't mastered the art of healing with just a touch yet," Homer had told her after their first meeting with the head of Saint Jude's Infectious Diseases Ward. "He'd be bleeding HMOs dry with a talent like that."

All joking aside though, Sarah's dislike for Burke bordered on outright distrust. There was an..._aura _about the man that made her shiver every time his thin lips split into the semblance of a smile. In the world of medicine Gregory Burke was what Sarah would have considered a treasure hunter - interested in reaping the glory and riches of cracking high profile, exotic cases and if there were some deaths along the way, well, you couldn't make an omelet without cracking a few eggs now could you?

Clearly he viewed the CDC presence in his hospital as uninvited and unwanted - that much was obvious in his condescending looks, wormy smiles and rigid posture every time he was asked to show them to another area of Saint Jude's but did that make him untrustworthy? He was almost always curt and rude with the pair of researchers but for all of that he _had _been accommodating or as close to accommodating as a man like Burke could ever come. If that was true then why was she unable to shake this feeling that Burke was constantly holding something back in their meetings? He answered the questions she and Homer posed to him and yet his responses always had a measure of...incompleteness to them.

_Maybe I'm just being paranoid_, Sarah thought as she stifled a yawn with her fist. _Sleeping three hours in three days can do that to a person. Especially someone as naturally sunny and personable as myself. _

Ever since finding out that she would be hopping a plane to Raccoon with Homer, sleep had been an elusive companion for Doctor Waxer. Maybe it was immature, maybe it was unprofessional but she was _excited! _After five years of paper pushing and bootlicking she had finally been given a chance to get out in the field and study what all the experts were referring to as Raccoon Syndrome, an entirely new type of infection that had been compared to Marburg and rabies - though Sarah was under the impression that those alleged "experts" were being just a tad bit overdramatic. Less than fifty cases had been reported so far after all.

_Besides if it _was _something as in-your-face as Marburg I don't think anyone - even the immortal Doctor Burke - would just come strolling on in here without even so much as a hankie to breathe through. We'd be talking a full hot suite - spacesuits, the whole ten yards. No fatalities yet either so there's another plus._

Whatever they were about to walk in on Sarah would be unfazed. For as long as she could recall she had never been afraid of disease. It had fascinated her, even as a child when she would spend hours asking grown-ups about what made her nose run or why she was coughing. Fear came from not understanding and Sarah had made it her life's work to understand where illness' like the Raccoon Syndrome came from and what could be done to send the wretched bugs packing. In the world of medicine Sarah supposed she would consider herself a detective.

_A detective...and an executioner_, Sarah mused idly as Doctor Burke turned down another particularly Spartan hall, his polished loafers beating out a crisp pattern on the immaculate tile floor. _We need to find what this little son of a bitch is up to, what makes it tick and then figure out the tools we need to chop the bugger's head off. _

It took all her willpower but Sarah fought off the urge to smile. No doubt, Homer would notice, frown and then launch into one of his lectures as soon as they left the hospital grounds. Doctor Shields did not share his cohorts enthusiasm and, as far as Sarah was concerned, took his job a bit too seriously. With Homer doom and gloom were the only outcomes. Since learning of the situation in Raccoon City, Sarah knew that every alarm bell in her partner's head had been clanging away at full volume. She could hear them ringing through his words often enough.

"This could be a plague we're talking about here, Sarah." Homer had told her on the flight, his fat face pinched and flushed, his beady eyes quivering more than his voice. "A virus that's nearly undetectable in its infancy, one that brings on a delirium and comas in...what? A few hours? And what weapons do we have to throw against it? By all reports conventional antibiotics have proven useless. We need to find out where this thing came from and _fast _if we have any hope of containing it."

"Slow down, there chief." Sarah had giggled in reply, kicking back in her seat on the private jet. "Before you go flipping your wig and screaming epidemic from the rooftops you should remember that _no _cases have been reported from _anywhere_ outside of Raccoon and there have been _no _deaths as a result of the virus either. So take your hand off the panic button for a minute would you? This is a chance for us to study and defeat something the likes of which medical science has never encountered before! You should be jumping up and down at the opportunity...not having a heart attack."

"I'm sorry Sarah but I wouldn't go planning the homecoming party just yet." Homer had scolded his pink face turning red. "This is an extremely serious matter we have on our hands here. The CDC doesn't just jump in every time a few people in the same town get the sniffles. You never see an epidemic coming until it's already in full swing. It's like wildfire: one second you're going for a walk in the forest and then _whoosh!_ Everything around you is burning.

"Whatever the nature of the virus in Raccoon is we need to get to the bottom of it quickly. If we don't people _will _die."

Well, Sarah had to admit, Homer did have a point there. People who just slipped into comas typically didn't wake up from them a few days later feeling refreshed and ten years younger. They typically didn't wake up at all. Time was of the essence...too bad that Jesus Christ, M.D. didn't seem to see it that way.

_Two days in and we're only just seeing our first patient now. Thanks a bunch, Greg! _ Sarah had been insistent on visiting patients the morning after arriving but Burke had refused to give them clearance to enter Saint Jude's until some "red tape had been trimmed away." Paperwork needed to be filled out and filed, phone calls needed to be made, authorization cards had to be issued. Burke had apologized today for the bureaucracy. _Bureaucracy? More like bullshit._

The "red tape" had been nothing more than a display of power, Sarah knew. Burke was simply flexing his muscle by tying them up with a day and a half worth of useless chores. He wanted them to know that this was his turf, his case and he did not appreciate interlopers digging their fingers into his pies.

_Too bad the CDC disagrees with you on that one, Burke. Even you still have to obey their orders don't you, you cocky prick?_ Sarah watched silently as Burke led them down a long hall, their footfalls echoing eerily. He had taken them to a patients ward and one that was deserted by the looks of it. At the far end a lone figure sat in a chair reading a newspaper. His black and blue uniform displayed a familiar logo on one shoulder.

"Umbrella?" Homer asked, squinting behind his glasses to make out the octagonal red and white pattern that was the pharmaceutical giant's crest. "That man's no doctor either."

"Ah, a keen observation Mister Shields." Burke grinned over his shoulder and Sarah wanted to smack him so hard his throat wound up where his spine used to be. "This is Harold Hargreaves," he said gesturing to the man in the chair, "he's serving as an interim security guard with us now."

"Security?" Sarah perked an eyebrow. "Don't you have your own orderlies for that?"

"We do," Burke sighed and nodded, a clear indicator that he found answering her inquiries to be a tiresome and unnecessary task. "There have been certain...incidents with RS patients in the past however. These incidents required a more professional touch and since Umbrella is a major contributor to Saint Jude's they were more than ready to step in and offer us some assistance in our time of need."

"Incidents?" Sarah asked as a fingernail of anxiety began to chip away at the foundations of her eagerness.

"Only one," Burke replied quickly with another hard, humorless smirk, "back when the virus was still new to us here at Saint Jude's. Two nurses and an orderly were injured by a patient who...had a violent reaction after coming out of the comatose stage. None of the three were seriously hurt but still, the episode taught us that you can never be too careful when dealing with RS patients."

Burke's tone was smooth and slow, the voice of a man trained in double-talk...as all physicians were in Sarah's experience. He was trying to sugarcoat it for them, she realized and yet still issue a warning. _Go figure, _she thought. _Well he is a doctor after all. He's probably used to giving those awkward little speeches where he tells someone they'll be dead by sunup but hey! It could be worse!_

A flash of movement at Sarah's side drew her eye as Burke bent to unlock the door Harold Hargreaves was so guarding oh so casually. She turned to find Homer glaring at her, his dark eyes all a quiver again as if to say "I told you so." She simply shrugged in reply before turning back to watch Burke toss the door open. Sarah hoped Homer would take her flippant dismissal as a measure of confidence because it was all she could do to keep her own worries from pouring out through her eyes.

_A mysterious virus...and now corporate muscle playing babysitter to one of its victims? _ Burke stepped through the door followed closely by Homer. As Sarah stepped past, Hargreaves crossed and uncrossed his legs and the young Doctor Waxer felt her pulse kick in to overdrive when she saw what was strapped to his hip. _ Armed corporate muscle? What the hell is going on here? _

"I apologize," Burke said as he ushered them inside the tight quarters. "The smell is something you get used to after awhile."

"What are you..." Sarah began but was unable to finish as the physicians meaning finally caught up to her - full in the face. "Oh God!"

Coughing and gagging, Homer slapped a hand across his mouth. "I've been in rooms with malaria patients that didn't reek as bad as this! What the hell is that?"

"That," Doctor Burke said cooly, "is Miss Gordon."

Wordlessly stepping past the Saint Jude's phsyician, Sarah gazed down at the room's occupant and the gaunt, wasted figure stretched out beneath the single bed's sheets froze her heart, stole her breath. In all her years of studying nightmare diseases, Doctor Waxer had never before encountered anything capable of..._mummifying _its host. It seemed a ridiculous way to word to use - a ridiculous thing to _think_ - but if there was any other way of describing the transformation that had taken place in Regina Gordon it eluded her.

Miss Gordon's eyes and cheeks were heavily bruised and deeply, sunken given them a look that was so far beyond emaciated Sarah thought it would have made the world's starving feel thankful for their own plump features by comparison. Her hair, what had once most likely been long, lustrous midnight locks, had come away in clumps leaving the poor woman with not but a few scraggly black strands left, poking up meekly from her scalp like the remains of a forest devastated by wildfire. Sickly brown and gray patches decorated most of Regina's skin which had grown dry and taught to the bones in the fingers and face. As she grew nearer to the comatose woman's bedside, Sarah was also able to identify the source of the room's foul odor and the realization dropped a lump of ice into her stomach.

"She's _rotting," _Doctor Waxer breathed, swallowing back bile wanting nothing more than to tear her eyes away from the hideous sight before her yet too intrigued to do so. "The virus...it's causing her to _decompose. _My God..."

"Did she come in here looking like this?" Homer asked, hands stuffed in his pockets, and keeping well back from the bed. The horror on his round face was outmatched only by his expression of disgust.

"No," Burke said in even tones as if he had just been asked whether or not he'd care for milk in his coffee. "According to reports Miss Gordon was suffering from a serious breakout of hives on her stomach but there had been no other outward signs of any kind of illness. All...this...happened after she fell into the coma."

"This happened in a _day_?" Sarah flashed Burke a wide-eyed, disbelieving glance. "That's impossible."

"You think I'm lying to you then?" Burke said with a shrug as if what Sarah Waxer thought was inconsequential anyway. "I've seen the change with my own eyes and not just with Miss Gordon either. There have been at least ten patients in this ward that have undergone a similar...metamorphosis after passing into the coma stage of Raccoon Syndrome."

Regarding Burke for another moment, Sarah then frowned and turned back to the patient lying still as a stone beneath the covers of the hospital bed. "Why don't you have her hooked up to an EKG?"

Another irked sigh from Burke before he responded. "We've found that with RS patients the results displayed by EKGs can be misleading to say the least."

"How do you mean?" She asked without looking, studying intently those ugly discolorations on Regina Gordon's skin.

"Place your hand under her nose," Burke commanded.

"I don't see what that has to do with -"

"Just do it," Burke snapped earning him a gaze so sharp and heated his skull should have split in two. He cleared his throat and went on in a softer voice. "My apologies. Please, Doctor Waxer, I didn't mean to be so domineering. I'm simply trying to answer your question. Place your hand under the patient's nose."

Carefully, with one eye clinging suspiciously to the ever-aggravating Gregory Burke, Sarah cupped her fingers together and slid her palm beneath Regina's nose. Warm, fetid air brushed across her skin, making it crawl. She snatched her hand away abruptly.

"She's breathing. So what?"

"Check for a pulse now."

Scowling at Burke, Sarah pressed her index and middle fingers together, holding them against the side of Regina's neck. The flesh there was ice cold and as smooth as old leather. _I hope you're enjoying this little game of Simon Says, you pri - "_Holy shit," she hissed, pressing deeper with her fingers before taking her hand back again. She met Homer's eyes with a pointed stare. "She has no heartbeat."

"What?" The other man exclaimed. "How can she be breathing without a pulse?" Disbelief overcame disgust for Homer Shields just long enough for him to feel along the woman's neck as well. After a couple moments of fruitless hunting he glanced to his partner with saucers for eyes. "Jesus. You're right."

"Yes, quite the anomaly," Burke nodded. "We were hoping Miss Gordon's blood tests would give us some insight into that phenomenon but sadly they raised even more questions."

"What kind of questions?" Sarah asked looking back at the doctor over her shoulder.

"For one, why her blood was already coagulated."

"_What?"_ The two researchers cried in unison.

"I know what you must be thinking." Burke replied, infuriatingly calm as ever. "Decomposing flesh, no cardiac activity and coagulated blood," he ticked the symptoms off on his fingers as he named each one. "All those signs would point to -"

"Death," Sarah finished for him, glancing down warily at the breathing cadaver.

"Yes," Burke grumbled, clearly displeased at having been interrupted. "Yet there remains clear respiratory function - a trait most certainly _not _found among the deceased. Our patient here, Regina Gordon, is both dead and not dead."

"What are you trying to say, Burke?" Homer snorted with a nervous laugh. "She's a fucking zombie now or something?"

Burke's eyes snapped sharply to the portly CDC researcher and his tone carried a dull edge to it when he spoke. "Zombies are fiction, Doctor Shields. Those of us that practice medicine here are concerned with facts and facts only."

Homer's mouth worked silently for a moment, no doubt surprised at the blunt rebuke. Finally he simply clamped his lips together and pretended to study something on his shoes, face burning.

_Way to go Homes, you smooth talker you. _

The prospect of a virus that could warp a hale and healthy person into a breathing corpse was enough to make even a medical Sherlock Holmes like Sarah Waxer trepidatious...but there was no denying who she was. _Always dive in headfirst, _Sarah told herself. Fishing around in her pocket with one hand, she used the other to check for a pulse in Regina's wrist and this time her fingers _did _find leather. Leather bindings and metal buckles secured to the bed's guardrails.

"You have a comatose patient restrained?"

"As I've explained numerous times, there was an attack by a patient on two nurses and an orderly," Burke grunted, his lips downturned in a sour frown. "The, ah, complications arose after the patient _recovered _from the coma. We aren't taking anymore chances." As Sarah began to lean out over the bed, still digging in the pockets of her lab coat, Burke added, "I wouldn't get too close if I were you, Doctor Waxer. I agreed to let you and your partner visit an RS patient not treat one yourself. There's still much about the effect the syndrome has on its hosts that you aren't aware of yet."

"And I suppose you are?" She muttered, fishing out a penlight.

"I know enough to keep my distance."

"Duly noted."

"Sarah, what the hell are you doing?" Homer ventured, voice quavering as it always did when she "went deaf". If there was one thing Homer simply could not cope with it was people who refused to listen...and Sarah Waxer was their queen. "Didn't you hear what he _just _said?"

"Oh, I heard him all right," Sarah replied, thumbing the light on. "I'm just checking her pupils, Homes, take a pill would ya?"

_You really need to stop trying to play, Daddy, Homer. It's the one thing that keeps you from being the cool wizened old sage and makes you the douchey old fart._

There was a sickening wet sucking sound as Sarah pried open Regina Gordon's left eyelid and shone her light across its surface. A milky white film filled the orb, leaving the pupil little more than a tiny black pea floating in a creamy soup. Chewing her lip, Sarah could feel the crease forming in her forehead.

_Cataracts? That's interesting. Well, if this is a game show then I guess the million dollar question is what type of virus turns your blood to sludge, dries out your ocular fluid, putrefies your skin but still allows you to breathe free and easy? Looks like my mummy label wasn't too far off the mark then. I wonder though..._

Letting the left eye snap shut, Sarah shifted her fingers to the right - and pulled away with a gasp when it opened all on its own. Regina Gordon's mouth parted, revealing rows of cracked brown teeth, and issued forth a thick, gurgling moan. Her breath was humid and stank of sickness.

_The corpse is trying to talk, _Sarah thought, horrified into stupidity.

"Get away from her!" Burke screamed but all Sarah could do was tremble as Regina lurched forward but was held back by her bonds. Wailing at the inconvenience she began to thrash and pull wildly at the straps.

"Sarah!" Homer's voice but it seemed to be coming from impossibly far away. "Jesus, Sarah, the restraints!"

Mouth gaping, hands shaking, Sarah's eyes flashed to the leather bindings Regina struggled so violently against. The straps began to stretch then cracked with a definitive _snap._ A scream of triumph from the waking corpse. A scream for Hargreaves from Doctor Burke.

Cold, flaking arms reached up for Sarah, hauling her down onto the ground. Drool, slimy and warm spilled down her cheek and she shrieked like a schoolgirl with a spider down her dress. Pale hands pinned her own flailing arms to the floor. Sarah thrashed, bucked, and kicked but to no avail. For a dead woman, Regina Gordon was alarmingly strong. With a moan that sounded to akin to a sound of hunger, Regina lowered her shriveled face, her teeth pressing against the skin of Sarah's neck.

Doctor Waxer's cries of revulsion and horror were cut short by two bursts of sound that took her several moments to identify as gunshots. The drooling, grunting, groaning _thing _atop her fell suddenly limp, pining her beneath the frigid weight of death. Her gorge rising rapidly, Sarah clawed and kicked her way free of Regina's gruesome burden and scrambled for the door.

Sights past in glimpses and flashes for the young researcher as she scampered frantically for the exit while resisting the urge to vomit: Burke scowling at her, face afire with barely contained fury. Homer, looking nearly as sick as she was certain she was about to be. Hargreaves, sweat trickling down his unshaven face, a smoking handgun held in unsteady hands and there, at his feet on the floor, Regina Gordon lay with two holes in her forehead, leaking blood and grey-matter out onto the pristine white floor.

Barely taking time to process these images, Sarah pushed past Burke and out into the hallway. She stumbled over Harold Hargreaves' chair, doubled over and spilled her breakfast across the tiles. Tears in her eyes, Sarah heaved and spluttered. When she brought her hand up to wipe her mouth only then did she notice the blood on her sleeve and collar. Yelping she tore her lab coat off faster than if it had been on fire and hurled the garment across the corridor.

"_Fuck!"_ Sarah detested foul language, resorting to it only when she deemed it absolutely necessary. "_Goddamn it! Fuck!"_

"Sarah?" Homer exploded into the hall, followed less enthusiastically by Burke and Harold Hargreaves. He took his partner by the shoulders, trying desperately to calm her, to get her to look him in the face. "Sarah! Are you alright? Did she hurt you? Sarah? Sarah, talk to me!"

"I'm fine!" She snapped, too harshly, he was only concerned for her but still she was pissed and when any Waxer got pissed the wise kept their distance. "I'm fine. Just...goddamn it. She was in a coma....a fucking _coma _and then it was like..._boom! _In your face, bitch. I can't believe it. She was trying to...to..."

_Eat me. Oh God. I think I want to be sick again. _

"Maybe the next time I tell you something you'll listen!" Burke spat, thrusting an accusatory finger in Sarah's direction. "Does the CDC usually hire headstrong, ignorant little girls such as yourself or are you the exception to the rule?"

Her first impulse was to punch Burke square in that curved, hawkish little nose of his and then follow that up with a solid kick to the crotch but something he said struck a chord with her. _CDC. That's right, motherfucker. I _am _CDC - I represent the bastards that get to tell you what to do and it's _my _recommendation they'll be listening to. _

"I want a quarantine instituted." She spoke matter-of-factly and just let the bastard try and argue. "Effective immediately. That's what I'm going to be including in my first report to HQ."

Burke rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically. "There's no need to over re-act. I assure you, Doctor Waxer, the security measures we have in place here are more than sufficient to deal with the current circumstances - provided the personnel we have on staff follow the proper protocols and _listen _to those with some experience in handling RS patients!"

"I'm not talking about this hospital you ass!" Sarah bellowed with more fire than perhaps even she intended. All three men jumped. "Tell me something, Burke. What protocols do you have in place for when the other forty RS patients in this place wake up from their comas? What happens when you get more than forty? When you get a hundred or two or three? What happens when RS victims in hospitals all over the city open their eyes and break their restraints? Do you have a plan in place to deal with that little contingency?"

Burke sneered but gave no reply.

"Didn't think so," She scowled. "No, Doctor Burke, I don't give a crap about your damn hospital. RS might have started here but it's going to be everyone's problem sooner or later." She moved closer to Burke, stepping up to him until they were nose to nose and he couldn't help but look her in the eye. "I want a quarantine imposed on the whole _fucking _city."

Author's Note: Hello all! Sorry for the delay, it's good to be back after so long. I've finally found some inspiration it seems. Another outbreak story, I know but I'm writing this as a set up for another story I have in the works where Zeke and Co. will return. Please read and review!


	2. Coffee Break

**Chapter One: Coffee Break**

"You need to stop reading that garbage, Clarke," Mick Murphy admonished his partner, peering over the younger detective's shoulder at the newsstand. "It's going to turn you into even more of a moron if you keep it up."

"Just trying to stay informed, buddy." Marshall Clarke chuckled, shaking his head. If ever there came a day where Murph was in a sunny mood, Marshall would dive under the nearest cover and wait for the proverbial rain of fire to begin.

"No news is good news," Murphy grunted, his fat grey mustache twitching.

"You've got that right," Clarke said as he scanned the headline of the _Raccoon Herald_, his grin fading into a frown.

_**"CDC LEFT SCRATCHING HEADS AS SEARCH FOR ANSWERS CONTINUES," **_declared the paper in Clarke's hands. Beneath the headline a caption read: "_Centre for Disease Control specialists Sarah Waxer and Homer Shields (both pictured below) have spent the last two weeks researching the strange virus plaguing Raccoon but claim to be no closer to finding the source of the disease or manufacturing a vaccine. Doctor Waxer has commented only that she finds the situation 'Frustrating'. _

Underneath the type was a half-page black and white photo featuring the two scientists. Both had been photographed coming down the front steps of Saint Jude's hospital where, by all reports, the first case of Raccoon Syndrome had been detected. Both appeared flustered - brows knit together, faces scrunched, Doctor Shields even raising a hand as if to try and block his face out of the photo. When Clarke noticed that the pictured had been credited too Thomas Chan he didn't blame the pair of eggheads for looking so pissed.

"You see that?" Marshall snorted as he tapped the name in small print placed in the far corner of black-and-white. "Tommy Chan. He calls himself a freelance photographer but he should carry a business card reading _Tommy Chan, Professional Scum Bag.'_ The _Herald's _standards are really slipping if that twerp's photos are making the front page."

"You two old college roommates or something?"

"Not exactly," Clarke said, finally turning to accept the steaming cardboard cup of coffee from the elder investigator's wrinkled hand. "I busted him at least five times when I was back working a beat. Nothing serious really, just the crimes of a journalist - trespassing, invasion of privacy, harassment. I learned enough about him to realize he's a vulture. Tommy would push his grandmother down an elevator shaft if he thought a paper would buy the pictures. Never figured he'd get anything outside of the tabloids though."

"Wonders never cease, eh?" Mick squinted down at Tommy's work on the front page and snorted a sardonic laugh. "That's the girl they sent to figure out why people are dropping like flies around here? No wonder they're all still sitting around with their thumbs in their asses. She doesn't look old enough to be out of high school yet."

That was a massive overstatement but - glancing back at the picture - Clarke noticed that Doctor Sarah Waxer _was _young, almost too young to be taken seriously in that lab coat but there was something about her eyes - sharp and clear even in black and white - that hinted at profound intellect and confidence bordering on arrogance. _Child prodigy then? _Maybe but Clarke doubted anyone in Raccoon City cared about the girl's life story. They wanted someone to tell them what was wrong and how to make it better and if that someone happened to be a test-tube junkie barely into her twenties no one was going to complain.

_Especially not with the situation as desperate as it is now, _Clarke mused, taking a swallow of the sharp, dark brew. _It was one thing when people were coming down with fevers and rashes - quite another when they starting going into comas and attacking people when they came out of them. _

Whatever delirium Raccoon Syndrome victims were sent spiraling into it must have been a doozy. Reports were coming in left and right down at the station of family members who were caring for the sick at home, due to overcrowding in the hospitals, being bitten, clawed and mauled by their own sons, daughters, mothers and fathers. Clarke had never had to deal with such an incident personally but he had heard the patrol boys tell their stories: lethal force had been implemented more than once.

_If it's this crazy out on the streets I don't want to imagine what it likes being a nurse right now. It's better you than me, Doctor Waxer. Give me a bad guy I can throw in cuffs and toss in a holding cell, thank you very much._

"That one marble of yours rolling around again up there, Clarke?" Mick said, nudging Marshall from his reverie. "Looks like you're thinking about something. Must hurt pretty bad, eh?"

"Me? No, just wondering if the real reason you're so down on Doc Wax is because she's too young for an old coot like yourself, Murph." Marshall fired back, wearing what Mick had always described as his used car salesman smile. "You can't deny, even with her hair in that bun she's nice to look at." Marshall held the paper inches from his partner's face as if reminding him of this fact. "I bet you're dreaming of doing some nasty things to the good doctor with that mustache of yours, aren't you? Maybe a little doctor-patient role play even? You'd be the sophisticated older man who has so much damn charm and charisma but - gosh - you just can't seem to get a hard - oof!"

A quick elbow to the gut cut Marshall off mid-sentence. Hot coffee scalded his fingers as it came sloshing over the rim of his cup but his cry of agony immediately turned to one of giddy joy. It was almost too easy to break Mick's balls sometimes but goddamn if it wasn't fun. Shaking the wetness from his hand, Clarke reached up to wipe the tears from his eyes as his sobs of laughter slowly ceased.

"I hope you're enjoying yourself, kid." Mick growled, giving the other detective another playful shove towards traffic. "I hope you got in a good chuckle there because your life just became severely more finite."

"Ah, c'mon, Mick." Clarke said, folding his copy of the _Herald _in half and slapping Murph's arm with it as a gesture of peace. "I was only pulling your leg. Your good leg I mean. I know how your knee is always acting up - especially when the weather goes to crap. Speaking of which, is that a thundercloud over there?"Marshall pretended to study the sky intently for a moment.

"Hilarious. I'm not that old yet, pal and if I am it's because working with a smart ass like you for the last three years has aged me considerably."

To that, Marshall only smiled. Three years? Time could definitely fly then and, truth be told, he was surprised an old school student like Mick had been able to survive three turns of the calendar with a guy like him.

In seemingly every realm of existence the pair were different. Style: Mick sported professional - yet seriously outdated - three piece suits to the office seven days a week, three-hundred-sixty-five days a year, topped off with crumbled, garishly colored ties. Marshall abided by the shirt and tie standard of the R.P.D. but made sure he was never caught without his lucky leather jacket on. Weaponry: In true old man style, Mick compensated for a lack of vitality with a surplus of firepower and packed a Colt .44 revolver in his shoulder holster while Clarke preferred the sleek, sexy Glock 17. In the interrogation room it Marshall adopted the role of good cop and Mick filled in as the bad...and enjoyed every minute of making their perp squirm.

_Well, at least it's been a happy marriage. Believe it or not, Murph, but I've learned a hell of a lot from you over the years. I doubt I would have lasted a year in homicide sharing a cubicle with anyone else. _Clarke grinned and shook his head. _Hell, what's with me today? My city is crumbling around my ears and I'm getting all sentimental. Better elbow me in the stomach again, Mick, need to get my brain back in the game._

"So what's the deal for today again?" Clarke asked as he walked in step with Mick back towards their car. Not lost on the detective were how empty the streets had become in Raccoon. It was well after eleven already and aside from a roadwork crew filling potholes there was not a soul to be found on any sidewalk. He supposed it made sense though. When you had a virus running rampant through your town people were not exactly eager to get out there and bump shoulders with their fellow, germ-clad citizens.

"Christ," Mick grumbled, scrubbing a palm across his crew cut. "You just don't listen when I talk do you?"

"Must be going deaf," Marshall confessed casually, tucking a loose strand of long brown hair behind his ear. "Is deafness contagious? Probably caught it from you."

"One of these days I'm going to find your off switch, Clarke." Mick grunted, twitching his mustache - about as close as Detective Murphy ever came to a smile. "Anyway, we're heading down to lock-up today. We've got an interview to conduct and some papers to finalize for a prisoner transfer. We're turning him over to the U.S. Marshals tomorrow afternoon."

"Right, right." Clarke took another long drink as Mick did the same. "That Lincoln guy. You sure he's really the same one the Marshals are after? I thought those guys were supposed to be hardcore. I heard our boy, Lincoln, just waltzed into the precinct and turned himself in."

"For once, you heard right." Mick nodded. "He stepped through the doors, walked up to the desk sergeant and said 'I'm Drake Lincoln. I'm wanted for murder in New York. Where's my cell?'"

"Wonders never cease."

Both investigators craned their necks to the left and out into the street as three S.W.A.T. trucks came rumbling past. The sight of the heavy black wagons stole away a large portion of Marshall's earlier exuberance. Convoys of the trucks had become an all too common sight in Raccoon over the last week. The R.P.D. was sitting up barricades across each and every exit from the city. Nobody in, nobody out - all by order of the CDC.

_According to the papers that was your move too, Doctor Wax. _Clarke turned his head, watching the S.W.A.T. trucks roll down the pavement and out of sight around the corner. _I hope you felt there was no other option left because you've got a lot of people on the edge of their seats now. Then again...you already know that. _

Chan's photograph had shown a young woman who had appeared more than agitated at having her picture taken as she strove to leave a place that was the sight of unimaginable strife yet Clarke was well aware that was not the sole reason for Sarah Waxer's expression of consternation. What Tommy Chan had failed to capture were the hundreds of protestors gathered around the steps of Saint Jude's that the CDC doctors would have to press through in order to make their escape.

With nearly a third of the city out sick - nearly twenty-five thousand people in just two weeks - the citizens of Raccoon were starting to get antsy. They wanted a cure and if there was no cure to be given then they wanted answers. Sarah Waxer could offer them neither and had compounded that injustice by sealing them inside their poisonous city like rats on a sinking ship. There was nowhere to flee. Needless to say, the rats had taken a liking to Doctor Waxer as a result.

Though the streets were empty most days, Marshall knew that tensions in the city were high, there was a charge in the air that reeked of anxiety and desperation. A single spark and that powder keg would go off. That spark could come from a single misstep or slip of the tongue by Doctor Waxer, another dead RS patient or assault _by _one and then the fireworks would really begin.

_Back at command they're already planning for the riots. _Clarke's morning cheer was now completely exhausted, he felt sour and dull inside. _Shit. You had better be a prodigy, doc. _

"That brain cell trying to fire again, buddy?" Mick asked with a raised eyebrow. "With you doing all this thinking I'm starting to get worried."

"Forget it, Mick," Clarke smiled dryly. "Just wondering about the times we're living in is all."

"Well, hell, if you're worrying about something that profound then I _am _ concerned."

When the pair reached their ride - Mick's dented, rusted, damn-near-dead beige Buick - the senior detective swore and flipped his partner the keys. "I've got to take a leak," he complained, already starting back in the direction of the Starbucks they had just exited. "Get her runnin' would you? I'll be right back."

"Sure, no problem, Gramps." Clarke chuckled, juggling his coffee in one hand and Mick's keys in the other as he tried to shift the newspaper under his arm. "Make sure to stick to a glass of milk for next time. You know how coffee runs right through you. You owe me another if I spill this thing trying to crack open the door to your bucket on wheels."

"_I'm _the onedrinking coffee," Mick corrected, not even bothering to glance back over his shoulder. "You're drinking the Extra-Tall-Columbian-Americano-Two Shot-Espresso Bullshit Blend."

Placing his copy of the daily paper and piping hot cup of morning Bullshit Blend on top of the Mick's old gunboat, Clarke slid the key into the door and popped the lock. Clarke sighed. He'd be happy the second he stepped through the front doors of the precinct and sank into his chair. Nothing like a little boring paperwork to get his mind off of the impending calamity that his city was facing and back on doing his job right.

_I must be going crazy_, he thought, shaking his head. _I'm actually looking forward to being nailed to my desk for a few hours. _

From behind, a hand closed around his shoulder.

"Come on, Mick. You're too much man to be this touchy feely."

A shit-eating grin already pasted to his face, Marshall turned, ready to see Mick's mustache bristling. The sight that awaited him nearly had the detective swallowing his own tongue.

Much like the hand wrapped around his shoulder, the face was ashen and peeling. Cloudy white eyes peered out at Clarke from sunken sockets. Parched, cracked lips parted to display rows of chipped, stained teeth. The man wailed, a hollow, lonely sound.

_Infected _was Clarke's first though. With a shout of terror and disgust he shoved the man away. Groaning, the figure dressed in a tattered flannel shirt and torn jeans, staggered back three steps then lurched forward once more with a harsh sigh. Bellowing, his pulse racing, Clarke drove his foot into the man's chest and flung him onto his back.

_Jesus, this is what RS patients look like? _Frantic, Marshall reached inside his coat, unfastening his Glock and pulling the weapon free. "Don't move!" He ordered, ashamed at how his voice shook, training the pistol on the sick man's chest. "I'm a cop, so just stay where you are."

Every story Marshall had overheard the patrol guys telling back at the station house came flooding back in an instant. He remembered the uniforms talking about how the Syndrome patients - the ones far along with the disease, too whacked out to be reasoned with - could take an entire clip and get back up. He remembered tales of officers who pulled up only to find patients trying to tear the throats out of their family's necks with their teeth. He recalled one story in particular about a patrolman named Carl Tyson.

Carl had responded to a domestic disturbance call involving an RS patient. After that call he had been rushed to hospital with only one finger left on his right hand. The infected suspect had eaten the other four when Tyson had tried to haul the woman off of her husband.

"I said don't move goddamn it!" Clarke repeated as the figure began to rise again, heedless of the weapon pointed at its torso. "One more step and I _will _shoot you!"

Too ill to hear or too ill to care, Clarke couldn't say but either way the man proved not at all interested in following his instructions. With another throaty moan, the man lunged at him. The pistol jumped three times in Marshall's sweaty hands. A trio of red holes exploded across the man's chest, bowling him back a step - before he took two more forward.

"Son of a bitch..." Clarke breathed, horrified and stupified. He had always thought those parts of the stories had just been break room bullshit.

Pale hands reached for his throat and Marshall snapped back to his senses. He pulled the trigger three more times, opening up more spaces in the man's dirty shirt. He stumbled a step backwards...then continued forward once again.

"FUCK!" Clarke roared, beads of sweat rolling into his eyes now. The Glock made two more reports and this time Flannel Shirt's head snapped back, blood trickling slowly out of a hole over his left eye. A soft sigh escaped the man - if something that _inhuman _looking could be called a man at all - and sagged to the sidewalk where he lay motionless.

"Damn it." Clarke breathed, heart fluttering, lungs aching - he hadn't even realized he had been holding his breath all along. He moved a step closer, sighting his weapon on the infected's forehead now. The shot had entered clean above the left eyebrow and it had been a damn lucky hit at that. The headshot had been a total fluke...if his hands had been steady he would have pumped another two useless holes in the man's sternum.

_Probably would have had him chewing on my Adam's apple too, if everything the boys told me is true. _Clarke lowered his weapon but was unable to tear his eyes away from the man's pathetic but no less monstrous appearance. _Goddamn. This is what it does to you? Holy shit. How do you catch the stuff? Bastard got a hold of me. Does that mean I could be infected too? _

Mind swirling with questions and a hundred new fears, Clarke had no time to think of any answers though as Mick came charging out of the cafe - Magnum in hand. "What the hell is going on out here?" He roared. "I heard shots."

"He happened." Clarke nodded to the body on the concrete. "Came up behind me, tried to take a piece out of me too."

"Holy shit." Mick muttered, frowning. "What the hell?"

"What is it?" Clarke asked, his heart pounding in his ears again.

"The wounds in his chest...they aren't bleeding."

"You're kidding me," Clarke edged forward to steady his handiwork. Six 9mm entrance wounds but none dripped blood. The holes themselves were red and raw but dry as the Arizona desert.

_If I wasn't the guy who shot him I'd swear those wounds were post mortem. Which means he was dead before I killed him. _Dumbfounded, Marshall Clarke was left shaking his head again. _Yeah. I'm going crazy for sure now. _

"Looks like we've got some explaining to do," Mick said, nodding towards something behind Marshall. Clarke twisted his neck around to see the roadwork crew come hustling over, drawn by the commotion. Marshall could only stare though, the gears in his mind rolling so fast they were in danger of overheating. _If he was dead before I shot him...if he was infected with the virus....then that means...Jesus. What _does _it mean? How many of these things are already running around in the hospitals? How is Doctor Waxer keeping them from attacking everyone in sight? _

"Christ," Mick grunted, "_now _what are you thinking about, Clarke?"

Marshall looked up at his partner, certain his own face mirrored the other man's expression of taut nervousness and cold fright. He turned his gaze from the detective to the cup of Joe sitting on the Buick's roof. Not a drop had been spilled during all that had gone on.

"I'm thinking," Marshall began as the construction workers came jogging up out of breath, "that this was one hell of a coffee break."

Author's Note: Here's a new chapter for you guys. I probably should have explained in the first installment that the events of this story begin two weeks before the events of TDN and then run a parallel course with the timeline experienced by Zeke and Co. Hope that clears that matter up. As always, please read and review! Thank you.


	3. Adoring Public

**Chapter Two: Adoring Public**

Cameras flashed and spotlights rolled, bathing Sarah's face in burning white brilliance and sending black spots dancing across her vision. Inwardly, she groaned and wrung her hands. With a hospital security guard flanking her on either side, the young virologist began the daily trek through her adoring public.

In addition to the collection of television news crews, journalists and photographers there was a much larger gathering that was not the least bit interested in asking Doctor Waxer any questions. As far as that mob was concerned they had already seen enough to pass judgement about Sarah's abilities in handling the crisis gripping their city. This congregation had simply come to make sure she was aware of their opinions.

_Pretty easy to do when they write them in two foot high red letters on six foot signs. _As the guards escorted her through the press of bodies - elbowing, shoving and swearing all the way - surrounding Saint Jude's Hospital, Sarah made certain to keep her eyes down. If she had to look at those signs even one more time she was certain she would break down in tears.

**"DEAR CDC: BRING US A REAL DOCTOR IF YOU WON'T BRING US A CURE!"**

**"SARAH WAXER IS A JOKE!"**

**"GO HOME SARAH - OH WAIT, I FORGOT, YOU'RE QUARANTINED WITH THE REST OF US!"**

**"WE SAID WE WANTED A VACCINE, NOT A QUARANTINE, SARAH!"**

_Those are only the polite ones too, _Sarah knew. Several of the posters bore slogans far less clever and far more direct. She knew imposing a quarantine would hardly be the road to popularity but never in her wildest dreams (or nightmares) had she anticipated a reaction like this...this..._madness_.

"It's because we stared getting flooded with victims," she had told Homer one night studying case files in their hotel room. "If we still had only fifty cases in one hospital then it would look like nothing more than the CDC being overly cautious but now that we have over twenty-five thousand cases in _ten _hospitals...well, they're really starting to feel the heat on the back of their necks now."

Reaching the bottom of the steps seemed to take an hour, even with Harold Hargreaves snarling at photographers on her right and a dark-skinned giant named David Muller shoving away cameramen on her left. Despite the best efforts of the two Umbrella provided goons though, microphones and tape recorders still found their way under her chin. The barrage of questions that followed was always the same.

"Doctor Waxer, is it true all Raccoon Syndrome patients are being restrained in hospitals across the city?"

"Is it true hospital security has been authorized to use deadly force against RS patients that become violent?"

"Sarah! Sarah! Why haven't any photos been released of RS patients?"

"Are you any closer to locating the source of the virus?"

"Doctor Waxer! Why would CDC Director Barnes assign someone with your limited field experience as the head researcher in a situation as volatile as this?"

"Will the Centre For Disease Control be dispatching additional personnel to assist you and Doctor Shields here in Raccoon?"

_I wish, _Sarah thought with an annoyed snort. In her last communication with Stanley Barnes he had made it perfectly clear that the CDC would not risk putting anymore of there staff in harm's way. A city gripped by an enigmatic, microscopic killer was nothing new to the office but when that city was also perched on the tip of falling into all out anarchy...well, that was another matter apparently. As far as headquarters was concerned, until Sarah could locate where the virus had originated from she and Homer were on their own. The only ones they could look to for help were the staff at Saint Jude's.

_Which is saying a lot. _Sarah pushed her way through the crowd of reporters, shouting the mantra of "No comment! No comment!" until her throat was sore. The only way to be heard above the din of the mob's accusations of incompetence was to all but scream. _Burke's people are about as useful as a sack of bricks and that assistant of his, Donovan Winters, gives me the creeps._

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the sea of scowling faces and thrusting arms gave way before Sarah. Her sanctuary lay only five feet ahead, in the form of the CDCs Mobile Research and Response Unit. The MRRU was the latest in state of the art viral detection and analysis technology and about the only thing in the way of support she had received from her higher ups.

Roughly the size of a standard RV, the MRRU was, in effect, a laboratory on wheels. Within its blue metal walls there was invested over fifteen million dollars worth of computer equipment. Also included in the unit was a Level 4 Bio-hazard containment freezer for the storage of deadly mutagens. Primarily used as a vehicle responding to hazardous outbreaks, however, the MRRU came equipped with everything from stylish light blue spacesuits - a must have item when taking a hike through areas home to anthrax and its neighbors in the world of microbes - to the newest form of decontamination showers. For the better part of two weeks, the rolling research station for all things diseased had served as home to Sarah and Homer.

Mere steps from the unit's side door, Doctor Waxer was already reaching for the handle when a familiar - and despised - figure darted between the young woman and her refuge. Tommy Chan was dressed in his characteristic khaki jacket, black jeans and ratty sneakers. It was a humid day for late September, leaving the slender Asians patchy goatee slick with sweat. Faster than the eye could follow, Chan had his camera up and was snapping ten pictures a second.

"Sarah, look at me! Look at me!" He shouted as she glared daggers at him, his finger a blur on the SLR's shutter button.

"Fuck off you little weasel," Hargreaves spat as he grabbed Chan by the shoulders and began to wrestle him back.

"Wait!" Chan shouted pathetically, dropping his camera so that it swung loosely around his neck. He waved to Sarah. "Doctor Waxer! Just give me a comment! Just one comment!"

"You want a comment, Tommy?" She growled. "Your the biggest piece of shit under the sun and you _can _print that!"

Yanking open the door, Sarah climbed into the MRRU and let the steel panel slam shut behind her. The crowd's roar now silenced to a dull rumble, she sagged against one wall, closed her eyes and took a deep shuddering breath. A hand, cool, calm and steady settled on her shoulder.

"Next time, you should really think about slipping out the back way," Homer smiled at her gently and Sarah, tired, stressed and disheveled couldn't help but smile back.

Sometimes, there was no man on Earth who got under Sarah Waxer's skin more than Homer Shields. So often he epitomized the typical old man - too cautious, too uncertain, too slow to make a decision - but, frustrating as that was, like a lot of old folks he also understood the importance of balance. Sarah was used to throwing one-hundred percent of herself into everything she pursued but Homer was always a fifty-fifty guy so that when she was down to running on fumes, ready to pull her hair out by the roots, he still had the energy and focus to get her back on the right path.

_You're not slow, Homes. _Sarah gave his hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze then set about trying to get her hair back in place, regretting that she could not rub away the bags forming under her eyes. _You're just that much smarter than me. _

"It's too late to start skulking out the servant's entrance now, anyway," Sarah told her partner. "If they find out I'm trying to escape their notice then the next time I come out they'll be throwing stones instead of curse words."

"Well, next time let me go in and do the survey," Homer offered. "It's about time I took my turn enduring their slings and arrows. The only reason they're picking on you is because you go in there on your own so much. We're supposed to be in this together, remember?"

"I know, Homes," she managed another weak smile. If nothing else, Homer was a sweet old fart. "I know but...Barnes named me the brains of this operation so if they want to crucify someone...might as well let it be me."

_Such a noble sentiment, Sarah. Too bad it's only half true. _That sounded too much like self-pity but the virologist couldn't deny it's accuracy. In spite of how rapidly matters were going south, Sarah wanted to be where she was - in charge. Not because of the level of infamy she was gaining with the Raccoon media but because she had worked for years - in school, at the lab, being a desk jockey for CDC headquarters - to prove herself, to be taken seriously and get out in the field as lead researcher. Now that she was here, in the belly of the beast, there was no turning back.

_I'm glad I've got you riding shotgun with me on this one, Homes but no matter what happens I'm not going to be able to let you take the wheel. If I do, Barnes will know I copped out. _

Affection was never an emotion Sarah had possessed for her boss but she regarded him with a high measure of respect none the less. Stanley Barnes was a hard man and had made it painfully clear that he was skeptical of Sarah's ability to perform well as the lead on a case of the magnitude as the Raccoon situation. He cared nothing for the fact that she had graduated with honors and a major in virology at the age of seventeen and had been working in private labs since the age of eighteen. To a man like Director Barnes, the only credential that counted was experience but even he had been forced to admit that Sarah had shown promise during her short time with the CDC and he had no valid reason to keep her out of the field any longer.

_So he sent me here. Trial by fire, he called it._ Sarah regarded Homer as he settled his bulk in a chair before the glow of one of the MRRU's many computer terminals. _Thank God, you're with me old man. I think the fact that I listed you as my assistant on this was the only thing that made Barnes agree to place me as lead. _

Officially, Homer Shields was retired from fieldwork but had agreed to one more tour of duty after much arm twisting from his longtime protege. Sarah had been quite pleased that she had never been forced to beg her former mentor - a little ego stroking, a little insulting and a few harsh words had been all it took. If it had come down to it though, Sarah knew she would have begged. Confident as she was with her own skill set, she was no numbskull. With twenty years of field experience under his belt, Old Homes was proving to be her biggest asset throughout the whole debacle in Raccoon.

"How was it in there today?" Homer asked as his fingers flew across the keys.

"Lots of fun," Sarah sighed, sagging into a chair next to the microbiologist. "Patients wailing and moaning. People demanding to see their families. People demanding to be released. Demented victims tearing at their restraints. At least we didn't have to shoot anyone today but the ER was hell on earth. Nothing but screams and bloods and orderlies trying to hold down thrashing patients. We must have seen at least fifty bite cases in the first hour and a half." Sarah rubbed the space between her eyes. Someone was inside her skull swinging a sledgehammer. "How'd the testing go back here?"

"Negative," Homer replied and it was his turn to sigh. "I'm running out of ideas here, Sarah. I've tried every combination of penicillin and erythromycin I can think of. Nothing works. The sucker just mutates and I mean _fast._ Right from the moment the antibiotics are administered its cellular structure goes into overtime and just starts shifting and then comes the real fun. It doesn't just change _itself _to adopt an immunity to the drugs - it actually absorbs and neutralizes them the way our bodies do to foreign matter." Homer gazed at her then and his eyes held equal parts fear and fascination. "This bastard isn't just deadly, Sarah, it's _smart._"

Doctor Waxer shook her head but remained silent. This was nothing new to her. Instead she elected to change the subject. "What'd you report to Barnes this morning?"

"Just what you told me to," Homer replied, sliding down a chair to peer through a microscope at a sample of the killer virus. "You still holding to that theory?"

"After today I'm even more convinced that the syndrome isn't airborne anymore." Sarah said with conviction. "Under fifty cases in the first week and then every case reported after that was from patients who had been attacked by RS victims. Today I didn't see a single person with symptoms who didn't have a bite or scratch to go along with them and look at us - you, me and Burke have been around since this lovely little character strolled through the door of Saint Jude's and were not going around with our skin rotting off trying to nibble on each other are we? "

"Guess we've got a case where the good news is really bad news then."

Homer had a point there. The good news was that if the disease was no longer airborne the likelihood of infection was much lower; the bad news was that so many people had already been infected by carrier contamination that this fact no longer mattered.

Raccoon Syndrome had clearly begun as an airborne virus - the first patients had arrived without a mark on them - but the strain in that stage must have been much weaker. Once the bastard found a host it became ten times more virulent, taking only hours to drop its victims into what hospital staff were calling the Coma-Rot Phase - once that happened as far as Sarah could tell, there was no bringing them back. Patients would awake an hour or two later deranged and violent.

"I know you're starting to second guess the decision now that the shit's hitting the fan but the call for a quarantine was a good one, Sarah. If we can't kill this thing then we need to contain it and the quarantine _is _working. Remember that guy they caught the other day trying to flee across the West Bridge? The one with the bite on his arm? We're keeping it from spreading, if nothing else."

"Small comfort that is," Sarah grunted. "We might have contained it but that's not helping our cause. We need to find a vaccine and we can't get working on that until we learn where who the first reported victim was and Burke is still being tight with his records."

Contact with Gregory Burke had been much more limited in the last couple days but Sarah was not complaining about that fact. Burke was nothing but a roadblock, still preaching about proper clearance and confidentiality issues while his hospital rapidly descended into chaos. He was being more open with access to his staff and virus samples (something he had outright refused them to examine outside of Saint Jude's own lab) but on some issues he would not break.

_Go figure that I'm the one with my picture in all the papers. _

"Slid over," she said and Homer obliged.

Rubbing eyes that felt as dry as sand paper, Sarah blinked and peered through the scopes. Raccoon Syndrome was a complicated looking, little devil - a mishmash of green cells and proteins. It was astounding to think something that was invisible to the naked eye could - in a matter of hours - change a normal, rational person into a raving maniac bent on attacking anyone who came too close.

"What are you?" Sarah whispered as the jumble of molecules began to vibrate.

_Trial by fire, was it? No kidding._

Beneath the magnifying glasses of the microscope the virus continued to dance, soundlessly. Ready to kill. Ready to destroy. Like a small inferno.

Author's Note: Here's the new chapter. Again, please read and review. I really appreciate any feedback you guys can give me. Expect another update soon. Thanks.


	4. Seeing Is Believing

**Chapter Three: Seeing Is Believing**

"Coming up on your right, boss." Godwin Tucker's booming voice was only mildly garbled as it came in over the CB radio. "Check it out."

Scrubbing the sleep from his eyes, Daniel Cobb twisted his neck and lazily glanced out the passenger side window. He found himself gazing down the same intersection Godwin had just driven by. Near the point where the two streets met tall flames danced manically from the windows of a small grocery store. Columns of choking, inky smoke raced high into the cloudy sky overhead. Broken glass littered the sidewalk out front like as if a thief had dropped his cache of diamonds.

Sitting up straighter now, it took Danny a moment to shake the cobwebs imposed on him by jet-lag and register the wail of near and approaching sirens. Gathered out front of the burning grocer was a collection of emergency response vehicles - fire, police and a lone ambulance idling with its backdoors propped open and lights flashing. A S.W.A.T team arrayed in full riot gear was busy assisting local police subdue a group of young men in the middle of the street. Cobb noticed an assortment of glass bottles arranged on the hood of one of the cruisers - each and every one had a rag stuffed down its neck.

After a moment, as the building was just beginning to fade around the corner, two more black-clad S.W.A.T officers emerged from behind the smoldering market, a submachine gun slung around each man's neck. Between the pair, a team of paramedics wheeled a stretcher towards the waiting ambulance. The duo was in no hurry, Cobb could see and nor should they be, he supposed. After all, their charged was dressed only in a body bag.

"Holy crap," a new voice squawked over the radio, this one far more nasal than Godwin's thunderous baritone. With his heavy East New York accent, Martin Sczchinski's "holy crap" sounded more like "hooooe-lay c-rap." "They've got some interesting sights to see down here, alright. Wonder how the tourism industry does around here. I can see the hotel slogans now: 'Welcome to Raccoon City! Hopefully the locals don't incinerate you during the night.'"

"Eyes on the road, Sczchinski," Cobb ordered the driver ahead of him, holding the receiver up to his lips. "We're only staying one night anyway."

"In a building that's fire retardant, I hope," Marty chirped back and Cobb couldn't stop the weary smile from forming.

"Aw, you can make it through one night, Sheesh." Cobb's driver, Michelle Court said using the nickname that Sczchinski loathed in the ever-so-sweet girly-girl voice that simply drove him nuts. "Don't worry, pumpkin', Mama remembered to pack your nightlight."

"Good God," Marty whined back ("Good Gaaaw-d"). "Cripes, isn't Gilson in there with you two? Tell him to gag that witch already, boss!"

A soft chuckle from the back drew Cobb's attention. He glanced over his shoulder and into the backseat where the fifth member of his team sat. Mike Gilson lay stretched out with his feet kicked up. Thick, muscled arms criss-crossed a chest wider than Cobb's front door. A black baseball cap was pulled low over his eyes. Stitched across the brow in white lettering were the words "_U.S. Marshal._"

"You tell Sheesh that I just _might _be enough of an asshole to think about taping Michelle's mouth shut," Gilson said in a drowsy tone, "but there's no way I'd be dumb enough to actually try it. I like having both of my balls right where they are."

"You hear that, Marty?" Cobb asked. He had been holding the transmit button down for the duration of the conversation.

"Yeah," Sczchinski replied, sounding dejected. "What's the world coming too when you can't even count on a heartless son of a bitch of Mikey there to do a little dirty work?"

Shaking his head, Cobb grinned and set the radio back in its cradle under the dashboard. He might have flown to the most dangerous place in America but at least he had brought decent company along to watch his back. His guys were good - uncouth, unconventional and unusual - but they were disciplined enough in their own right and knew how to catch felons as if it were second nature. Each and every one of Cobb's marshals was a tireless old crank whose favorite hobby was breaking the balls of his cohorts - though this often proved most difficult when it came to Michelle, chiefly because, Cobb suspected, she had the biggest pair out of any of his band.

_Just keep in mind getting them all here in one piece was the easy part, _Cobb tried to suppress the queasy wave that rippled through his belly at the thought and met with only minimal success. _Admit it, you never expected things to be as desperate as they are here. You're not going to be able to sleep a wink while working this case and you know it, Danny Boy. At least not until you've got Drake in cuffs, on a plane back to Manhattan with the rest of the team whole, happy and healthy._

Health had been a dominant issue in Cobb's mind since learning that Raccoon City had been the rock Drake decided to crawl out from under after more than two years on the run. Despite clearing screening before take off and after landing for any signs of the disease tearing Raccoon apart at the seams, Commander Cobb felt no relief. The briefing back in Manhattan had ensured that Danny was all too keenly aware of the situation he was about to thrust his team into face first.

_Figures you'd turn up in a place like this, Lincoln, _Cobb found himself frowning every time he so much as thought about the man. _A city ravaged by an invisible invader, teetering on the edge of all out chaos, ready to tear itself apart with its own claws - just your kind of joint, I bet. You've always been a magnet for suffering and death, after all. _

"Thinking about you're boyfriend again?" Michelle asked, pulling Danny from unpleasant musings and back into unpleasant reality.

"What?"

"Drake," she smiled wanly. "You're thinking about Drake, aren't you?"

Barking a guilty laugh, Cobb nodded. It never failed to amaze him just how perceptive the redhead could be when it came to her teammates. To her, Danny and the others were made of glass: see-through.

_It's pathetic, _he thought with a tiny, inward grin. _Four manly men like us can't even hide our feelings from a woman half our age and half our size. _

"How'd you know?" The amusement on Cobb's hairy, lined face was outdone only by his apparent embarrassment.

"Please, it's too easy with you, boss. You have an incredibly distinct Drake-look." Michelle proceeded to scrunch her face in an over-the-top constipated grimace. "Kind of like that."

"Damn," Danny shook his head, still smiling. "I really look like that? Need to find myself a good plastic surgeon then."

"Tell us something we don't already know," Gilson grumbled from the back.

"Hey!" Sczchinski's voice crackled over the wire, disrupting Cobb's retort. The urgency in Marty's shout had the marshal commander sitting up straighter. "Hey, up ahead! I think we've got trouble, boss."

Squinting through the grimy windshield, it took a moment for Danny to spot what had raised Sheesh's hackles. He saw them a moment a later, pouring out of the next intersection like a flood of flesh and bone. As he began to instinctively count their numbers and the count just continued to rise - ten, twenty, thirty, forty - Cobb let out a low whistle.

"Demonstrators," Gilson, now seated upright with his hands closed around both headrests and hat flipped backwards, spoke the word as if it were an obscenity.

With the virus devouring Raccoon City's citizens like an urban cancer, and the efforts of the CDC proving ineffective, Cobb's team had been warned before their flight that civil unrest was becoming more and more prevalent. Protests outside hospitals and government buildings were an almost daily occurrence now, according to what he had seen on the news. Arsons, such as the one they had viewed only moments ago cruising down Fifth Street, were turning into a pastime for the city's youth. Thanks to the killer syndrome, Raccoon City was rapidly undergoing a rude transformation into the Wild West.

The most troubling news, as far as Danny Cobb was concerned anyway, had come from the marshals local law enforcement contact. Detective Mick Murphy had called Cobb after his arrival and advised the marshal commander to travel in plain, unmarked cars during their brief stay in Raccoon. According to the veteran cop, in the last couple days a large number of the protestors adopted the habit of taking their frustrations out on police vehicles. So far no officers had been killed but several had been injured amid the barrages of bricks, stones and molotov cocktails.

_Just another wonderful little quirk to this picturesque city in the mountains. _The silent voice was bitter with sarcasm as he reached for the radio.

It was almost one in the afternoon but the marshals' boring black sedans were the only wheels on the road. Nothing got rid of traffic better than a good old fashioned plague. Unfortunately, it made the pair of painfully nondescript vehicles standout like two German tanks, trundling down up the street.

The marshals' leisurely, law-abiding pace only helped them to stand out even more and it was mere seconds before the mob took notice. Fifty plus heads slowly turn their way and Cobb found himself amazed at how..._ordinary _they all look. He knew it was foolish but in his mind's eye he had envisioned unwashed, half-dressed masses of raving humanity, snarling and gnashing their teeth but what he had been given was a collection of the young and the old, men in suits marched alongside women in shorts. These were no savages - just regular people who were desperate and afraid.

_Don't go getting all teary-eyed for them just yet, _Cobb reminded himself as he watched Godwin and Sheesh's car roll closer. _They may not be a bunch of whack-jobs dancing naked in the streets but they and they're buddies are still responsible for putting cops in the hospital and, from my understanding, that's the last place anybody wants to go in Raccoon City. _

With the sedans growing closer, the crowd halted, standing confidently in the middle of the street at the mouth of the intersection. Heads tilted and eyes turned as if trying to peer through the tinted windows at the vehicle's occupants. None of the demonstrators took so much as a step forward but Cobb was unable to shake the feeling that something was wrong. After fifteen years of hunting down the world's worst murderers, rapists and thieves, Daniel Cobb had learned to trust his instincts.

"Something's not right," he whispered, his hand dropping to the butt of the Sig Sauer strapped to his hip. Behind him, he could feel Gilson do the same.

"Look at all those signs they're holding," Michelle muttered as, up ahead, Godwin approached the curb the bulk of the mob was occupying. "Son of a bitch, their must be dozens of them."

Cobb nodded, the girl was right. Front and back, the men and women of the crowd - all wearing similar expressions of numb terror and white-hot rage - held the same white posters where bold black and red letters screamed phrases such as "_**C.D.C. = S.O.L.", "WELCOME TO RACCOON SHITTY," **_and "_**CHIEF IRONS MUST GO!" **_There was another sign, further back amid the sea of upraised arms, that drew Cobb's attention. He swore under his breath as he read it whereas Gilson was much more boisterous when it came to voicing his thoughts.

"What the fuck? Does that say what I think it does?"

_Yes, it does. What the hell does it mean? Beats me._

About to say as much, Danny clapped his teeth shut and sat forward bolt upright when he noticed what was wrong with the gathering. He, like the rest of his team, had been distracted with reading the morbidly clever quips on the signs when he should have been watching the hands that were not gripping six foot high slabs of poster-board. He noticed them now though, noticed the broken bottles, two-by-fours and concrete blocks they held.

"Gun it, Godwin!" Danny bellowed over the radio as he unholstered his weapon with his freehand. "They weren't stopping to let us by - they were holding up to wait for us. Something tells me that the welcoming committee outside isn't interested in delivering us a fruit basket."

Godwin gave no reply, content to let the gas pedal do the talking for him. The sedan in front of Cobb took off like a shot, screaming past the mass of armed onlookers with its twin in tight pursuit. With the two cars zipping past, the mob realized its ruse had been uncovered and judging by the chorus of roars and raised fists they were none too pleased with this result.

"Go! Go! Go!" Cobb yelled at Michelle even as she took her cue from the driver ahead and let her foot ride the floor.

Leg power was no match for horse power but the throng of demonstrators did their damnedest to catch up. Throwing their signs down, the mob ran with their heels kicking their asses and when the cars began to outdistance them, they let loose a hail of debris. Hurled bottles shattered against the trunk of Cobb's sedan, making the commander and his two deputies duck instinctively. The wooden clubs bounced dully off the roof, while the bricks and concrete slabs missed their targets but fell perilously close all the same.

"You okay back there, boss?" Godwin buzzed as they sped down a blessedly deserted street, the tired mob falling back, giving up the chase.

"Never better," Cobb muttered back, his heart hammering in his ears. He shut his eyes and inhaled deeply. "Fuck me," he sighed.

"Looks like they aren't so prejudiced about attacking only police vehicles anymore," Gilson muttered, staring out the back window with his handgun still drawn.

"I have to admit," Marty squawked, "when I saw all the hardware we were packing for this little vacation I thought you were just trying to get Michelle all hot and bothered by breaking out the big guns. Now...I'm thinking maybe you had the right idea all along, boss. This place is seriously FUBAR."

"Jesus, cut the crap already would you, Sheesh?" Cobb snapped back and slammed the receiver down. He knew that Marty was just being Marty and trying to lighten the mood but he wasn't in the mood for the man's bullshit.

_FUBAR? There's an understatement. I should just be glad we're the only folks in town that have a ticket out of this hell hole. _After witnessing what the virus had done to the city, the lengths of hopelessness it was driving its survivors too, Cobb was even more terrified of it. _I hope those brainiacs from the CDC were right, that you can't contract this shit just by driving through town. The government made a special exception for us to bring Drake back to stand trial but won't we feel real great about ourselves if we wind up bringing back two killers instead of one. Christ, Manhattan is ten times the size of this place and more, just imagine how much havoc this thing would reek over there. _

Shaking away the chilling thought of a second outbreak of the syndrome, Cobb craned his neck backwards when Gilson gave his shoulder a tap. "Hey," the big man whispered, "you saw that sign, right? The one way at the back? Did it say what I think it said or am I just bugging out?"

"You're not bugging, Gilly," Cobb replied, recalling how the poster had fluttered in the breeze as its holder carried it higher than any of the others around him had carried theirs.

_It read: "__**DOCTOR WAXER, WHERE CAN THE ZOMBIES GET THEIR BOOSTER SHOTS?"**_

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Upon arriving at the 101st Precinct, Danny's first impression was how desolate the place was. In the midst of a crisis like the one facing now facing Raccoon, Cobb had expected the place to be a whirlwind of activity: officers running for their patrol cars, riot teams scrambling for their gear, patrolmen dragging looters in with their hands shackled behind their backs. As it turned out the place was a virtual ghost town: aside from the desk sergeant, there were only two uniforms and two plain clothes officers working behind their desks. When he had inquired as to the strangeness of this while checking in, the sergeant had only shrugged.

"We're understaffed," he had said. "All our personnel have been diverted to the barricades." He grinned then and his smile was all dark humor and cynicism. "Turns out they're understaffed too."

"That's the funny thing about disease," Gilson had commented as Cobb and his team made their way towards the interview room where Drake Lincoln was begin held. "It doesn't give a shit about what uniform you where."

"Just be happy we're out of here after tonight," Cobb answered though he suspected the words were as much for his own benefit as theirs.

The hall to the interview rooms was located just outside of the homicide departments cubicles - another dead area in the station. Only two detectives here as well, manning phones that were ringing off the hook. When Danny and his team departed the elevator, a door labeled _Interview Room #3 _swung open and a middle-aged man in crumbled brown suit with a file under his arm and a badge clipped to his hip exited.

Narrowing his eyes, the detective took in the stitching on their caps before saying, "You're the feds, huh?" He smoothed his gray mustache with a finger. "I'm Detective Lieutenant Mick Murphy."

"Commander Daniel Cobb," the marshal replied, shaking hands. "These are my deputies."

The team took turns introducing themselves. All kept their greetings short and sweet, save for Sczchinski who simply refused to pass on an opportunity to run his mouth.

"My name's Martin Sczchinski," he said a beaming smile splitting his long face. "Everyone calls me Sheesh though. That's usually what they wind up saying when they try to pronounce it the correct way."

"I'm Mick," the detective re-introduced himself curtly, "everyone calls me, Mick."

Marty's smile evaporated after that. Michelle, the one beaming now, nudged him in the ribs.

"You got our guy?" Cobb asked and only once he had asked that question, only once he was forced to wait for a response to it, did he feel his pulse start to quicken.

"He's in there," Murphy replied nonchalantly, pointing a thumb back over his shoulder. "If you want to talk to him yourself feel free. I'll entertain myself by going over tomorrow's game plan with the A-Team here."

"I was expecting there to be two of you," Cobb said. "You mentioned on the phone that your partner would be coming along with us."

Mick nodded gruffly. "He took a sick day."

"The virus?" Michelle asked, looking sick herself.

"Not the way you're thinking, at least." Murphy's brief smirk was devoid of any mirth as he pushed past Cobb and approached the others.

Danny nodded to the rest of his team, the signal for them to follow Detective Murphy. As they paced away he turned back to the interview room door, his heart hammering harder than when he had spotted the weapons the protestors had been brandishing, his hand sweaty on the cold knob. Shutting his eyes, Cobb tried to organize his thoughts, still his heartbeat.

_It's not going to be him, _the marshal thought both dreading and hoping for it to be the truth. _I'm going to open the door and see that it's not him. It'll be someone who looks close, some loser who's trying to claim Drake's rep. There's no way it's him. Guys like him don't get tired of the chase and just turn themselves in. The chase is what they live for. _

Cobb shook his head. "Either shit or get off the pot, Danny Boy." Steeling himself, he turned the knob and slipped inside.

"Hello, Danny."

Cobb froze

_It's him. _The realization froze him dead in his tracks - he even forgot to let go of the handle. _Holy shit. It's really him._

Seated on the opposite side of the room's plain plywood table, decked out in jailhouse orange, was the man Cobb had dedicated more than two years of his life to putting away for good. It was the man he had come to think of as his nemesis. It was the man who had murdered dozens in the streets of Manhattan - sitting so demurely, his hands encircling a styrofoam cup of vending machine coffee while a pair of steel handcuffs encircled his wrists.

"Cat got your tongue, Danny?" Drake asked with the barest hint of a smile. The corners of his rough, stubbled face lifting so briefly Cobb thought he might have imagined it.

"I had to see it to believe," the marshal said at last, pulling up a chair across from Drake and settling his bulk into it. He steepled his fingers as he studied the man he had hunted for so long.

Drake Lincoln was not much to look at - short hair, rough skin, scars that criss-crossed his cheeks and forehead - and yet, Cobb knew that his face had inspired terror beyond comprehension in so many. Those whose lives he had taken had always seen Drake coming. They knew what he was and that if he had to come to pay them a visit it was for one reason and one reason only.

"Seeing _is _believing, Danny."

"I suppose it is."

"You look disappointed." Drake said after a brief pause.

"What?"

"You heard me," the other man replied, pausing again to take a short swallow of coffee. "You don't seem at all...pleased to find me here - in cuffs, in this fashionable orange jumpsuit. I think I know why that is too."

"Oh yeah?" Cobb snorted. "You a mind reader now on top of being a murderer, Drake?"

"I never claimed to be a mind reader," Drake replied smoothly, "I only know that when someone spends as much time looking for another person as you spent looking for me...a connection develops."

_You don't know anything, Drake. _Cobb said nothing, content for the moment to scowl at the other man. _What do you know about what I went through to find you? Do you know what it's like to give up sleeping for days so you can spend all your goddamn time learning about when, where and why a man does what he does? Do you know what it's like to learn a man's every habit so that you can anticipate his next move?_

_Do you know what it's like to put your own life on hold so you can make the very act of hunting down another person the entire purpose for your existence? Maybe you do. After all, how long did you follow your victims, learning when, where and why they did everything they did? So you knew when to strike. _

"You think you have a connection with me?" Cobb demanded.

"After all our run ins?" Drake smiled sadly. "Of course. It's the same connection between predator and prey, isn't it? Seems I proved the prey in this case." He took a deep drink from the steaming cup.

"So why would I be disappointed?" Cobb said, staring at Drake stone-faced, unblinking. "Either way, you go away forever."

"You're disappointed," Drake replied in tone so cool and analytical he could have passed as a clinical psychologist instead of a handcuffed felon, "because while I might be the prey you're no longer the predator. You're disappointed because you didn't hunt me down - the Raccoon police called you and told you where I was. Most of all, you're disappointed because I'm not wearing this jumpsuit or these bracelets as a direct result of your actions."

Scowling, Cobb clenched his shaking hands together. What Drake had just said was so concise, so biting and so infuriatingly true. He wanted to strangle the man.

"Am I disappointed?" Cobb asked, his voice trembling worse than his hands now. "You're goddamn right I am. I gave up two years - _two years__ - _trying to find you and I came damn close more than once. I spent days sitting outside the hangouts of you and your scumbag friends. I sacrificed _everything _to get inside your head, to learn what you were doing before you even thought about doing it. I know you better than your fucking mother does by now and then you turn up here? You just give up? I want to know _why!_" He slammed a fist down with such fury he was surprised the table didn't give way under his hand.

Drake did not flinch from Cobb at the outburst. He sat calmly, studying the marshal with a casual expression. Frowning, he took another sip from the styrofoam cup. "I made a discovery about myself."

"I can't _wait _to hear what that is."

"I discovered that I have a conscience after all."

"Fuck you!" Cobb lost control, years of pent up frustration coming to a head in a matter of seconds. He stood up abruptly, tipping his chair over. Leaning in he exhaled violently, pressing his nose against Lincoln's. "You think you have a conscience? _You? _Here's a news flash, Drake, _you're a fucking hitman_! You kill people to pay the bills, that's your job. You take lives and ruin more to fill your bank account. You work for the scum of the earth and now you're going to tell me that you _feel bad _about what you did? That's your big revelation? That's why you turned yourself in now?"

Drake did not blink in the midst of the marshal's fury. He did not smile mockingly and chuckle and taunt. He met Cobb's stare with his own and answered, quite plainly, "Yes, Danny. It is."

Growling, Danny pushed away from the felon, staring at him with a mixture of loathing and disgust. "You've killed dozens of people, Drake. Men and women. Where was your conscience then?"

"I know it's not the answer you want to hear, Danny," Drake sighed. "You want me to tell you that the pressure you were putting on me became to much. That I cracked. That I couldn't take another day watching over my shoulder for you and turned myself in but none of that would be the truth."

"You think I need your justification?" Danny chuckled sardonically. "Why would I want to hear any of that from you?"

"Because you live for the chase, Danny. It's the only thing you've got."

His words stilled Cobb, stopped his shaking. How could he know? Had he learned anything at all about this way, Cobb wondered. The hired killer was constantly surprising him. _He's right_, the marshal's mind whispered. _He's right and you know it._

"Fuck you, Drake." Cobb spat. He didn't know how to reply to Lincoln's statement. He didn't know how to admit - even to himself - that it was the truth and nothing but. All he knew was anger, so he ran with that. "Fuck whatever you think about me. You're just another piece of shit that's going to rot behind bars for the rest of your worthless life. You'll have plenty of time to spend with your fucking conscience sitting in a six-by-eight cell. Tomorrow, you're leaving on a plane with me and that'll be the end of our fucking connection."

Rising with another repulsed grunt, Cobb kicked his chair aside and started for the door. "Danny?" He turned as Drake spoke his name, glaring at the man over his shoulder. "Don't be late tomorrow. You're the only flight out of town."

Again, Drake Lincoln, hired gun, Rent-A-Reaper, had robbed him of any words. _Son of a bitch, _Cobb realized, _he just got the last word. _For the shortest of moments, Danny envisioned himself slamming the felon through the nearest wall.

In the end, he settled for slamming the door instead.

"_You live for the chase, Danny,"_ Cobb remembered the words as he stalked off to find Detective Murphy and his team. _"It's the only thing you've got."_

_Did you know that about me, ma? _

Author's Note: Here's the new chapter, enjoy! As always, please read and review. I'd like to give a big shout out and sincere thank you to John Al who seems to be the one and only fan I have left.


	5. Desperate Times

**Chapter Four: Desperate Times**

Horror, like any emotion, was nothing more than a chemical reaction in the brain. Outside stimulus was observed, processed and one's central nervous system responded by releasing various compounds in the brain that triggered feelings of anxiety, panic and profound terror but, like any reaction, once it had been learned it became progressively less severe each time it had to be endured. After all, one could only have their finger pricked by the same pin for so long until the sensation went from painful to painfully annoying. For Sarah Waxer, Saint Jude's Hospital had become that pin.

During her first two weeks in Raccoon, the young researcher had been certain that the sights and sounds of the hospital's halls would drive her mad: virus victims thrashing with a vengeance against their restraints, trying with every ounce of willpower left to them to attack the doctors working to save their lives - or at least restore some modicum of humanity to them. Fights constantly broke out in every wing of Saint Jude's as patients grappled with security, doing everything they could to escape the quarantine imposed on all those infected with the syndrome. Each day she had watched as more men, women and children were admitted covered in scratches and bite marks, vomiting up green bile as they clawed at themselves in a frenzy to alleviate the sting from patches of hives that covered neck and abdomen.

_Those were just the RS cases too, _she thought, scrubbing at eyes that were red from a lack of rest and an excess of tears. _The victims of the riots were actually in rougher shape half the time. There was that guy with part of his skull caved in or that woman who'd had her legs crushed almost to dust by a couple of yahoos with steel pipes. Homer's right, the devil must be taking a vacation here or something._

Pressure from the media weighed on Sarah without relief. At the end of every day Doctor Waxer did not have the luxury of looking forward to a hot meal and a soft bed. No, she would be forced to run the gauntlet of snapping cameras, blinding spotlights and barbed questions on her way back to the MRRU. The storm of reporters that awaited her always made sure to phrase their questions eloquently enough but Sarah was well aware of what they were really trying to ask. "Why don't you have any answers yet? Why did you come all this way if you can't help us? Why are you such a useless, stupid, little girl?"

She had been in Raccoon City less than a month and already Sarah could hardly recall the number of nights she had stayed up until dawn, weeping with Homer's gentle, warm hands on her shoulders. Stress and exhaustion were threatening to dig an early grave for her sanity. The fear that Barnes had been right about her - that she was too young, too inexperienced, too green - was ever present, sitting on her back like an anvil the size of Texas but then, this morning something different had happened when Sarah opened her eyes.

_I said fuck it. Fuck the press outside. Fuck Barnes' misgivings about me. Fuck Burke and his endless runarounds about authorization and confidentiality. Fuck crying like a little girl who fell off her bike. Fuck feeling useless and helpless. _

_It's time to cowboy up. It's time to stop asking for things and start taking them. It's time to start acting like a goddamn doctor, for once. _

Sarah was done with letting that needle jab her again and again. No more tears, no more whining about feeling frustrated and broken. No more trying to figure out how to go around obstacles - it was time to start charging through them head on.

After dressing and making a vain attempt to straighten her hair, Sarah had grabbed Homer by the sleeve of his lab coat and dragged him out into the daylight. Head held high, shoulders back, hand on her partner's wrist, she strode through the crowd of reporters like a battleship breaking waves. Now, with the front doors parting before her, Doctor Waxer shut her eyes and breathed deeply.

_Okay, _she exhaled heavily,eyes snapping open. _Here we go. _

Pushing past the receptionist, Sarah, still leading Homer by the arm, aimed for the elevator on the other side of the emergency room. The smell was the first thing that she noticed, striking her in the face with the full force of a heavyweight's haymaker. Dried blood, old and fresh puke, stale sweat - these were the odors of human misery. Sickness itself had a scent in Raccoon City.

Swallowing the gorge rising in her throat, Sarah continued on past rows of chairs occupied by the injured and the diseased. Saint Jude's had been unprepared to deal with the sudden influx of patients to their ER - primarily because of the number of doctors and nurses falling victim to the syndrome themselves - and an overflow had been inevitable. Now casualties of the riots had been grouped with those infected with RS and sat on the floor or leaned against the walls - anywhere they could find open space. As Sarah and her colleague rushed by, faces smeared with blood and bruises turned their way, bleary eyes glowing with a fervent, pathetic hope. For a moment, as long as it took to glance into those eyes, she could read their thoughts: _Maybe she can help us. She's a doctor, just look at her. Maybe she'll come over and listen to my chest, check my eyes and tell me how to get better. Maybe. _

_I'm trying guys, _Sarah answered back silently as she tore her own gaze away. _I'm trying my best to fix you all. Just hope and pray that my best is good enough. _

Unfazed, unblinking, she maneuvered around the dead and the dying strewn across the filthy tile floor like a child who had grown bored with her dolls. As the elevator came into sight, the hospital's PA system began to bark incessantly, a play-by-play of the chaos raging within the walls of Saint Jude's. Sarah blocked it out, let it become background noise. She knew the reason for every page, could only imagine the panic and violence of each situation as it was broken down into a sentence over the speakers and reported with cool indifference. Thumbing the arrow for the 8th floor, Doctor Waxer listened to the announcements with only half an ear, her mind decoding the pages out of habit now.

"_Doctor Winters to examination rooms three, five and ten please. That's Doctor Winters to examination rooms three, five and ten_." A trio of fresh RS cases had just been confirmed then. Over the last two days, Gregory Burke had relinquished more and more control of the situation at Saint Jude's over to his assistant, Donovan Winters. It was now hospital policy for Winters to sign off on all new diagnoses of Raccoon Syndrome.

"_Security urgently requested in Wards One and Two. Security urgently requested in Wards One and Two."_ All wings housing RS patients had been designated as Quarantine Wards One through Ten. An urgent request for security could mean one of two things - an RS victim had either broken free or, even worse, already attacked someone. Whatever the case, the result would be the same - once RS patients snapped their restraints security officers had been authorized by Burke to shoot first. Attempting to secure the patients had proven too dangerous, an absurdly high number of hospital personnel had become infected as a result.

"Guns should have no place in a hospital," Homer muttered absently. He understood the meanings of the pages as well as she.

_You've got that right, Homes. _The elevator arrived - blessedly empty - and Sarah ushered her partner inside. _Unfortunately, this place - this city - doesn't follow the rules of what should be anymore. _

"_Would Doctor Burke please report to the conference room. Would Doctor Burke please report to the conference room." _Another meeting was going on between Burke and hospital administration to discuss the rapidly crumbling situation facing Saint Jude's.

_I think we're a little past the point for meetings, doc._

When the elevator reached its destination, Sarah was out before the doors slid fully open. She released her grip on Homer, content that the other man would follow of his own accord now. Blocking out the noise from the loudspeakers, Sarah turned sharply to the right and trudged down the hall towards a row of offices at the far end.

On the way, the two CDC analysts passed by a man in a lab coat and two Umbrella Corporation security guards struggling frantically with a patient in a soiled hospital gown. The patient - whose skin was so grey it bordered on black - fought mightily as the threesome tried with their combined strength to pin him onto a gurney. Wailing the man made a choking sound as he brought up a rush of pale yellow vomit. The doctor staggered away with a disgusted roar.

Flinching, Homer lowered his eyes as they strode past the scene but Sarah refused to look away. It meant nothing to her. Her throat did not lock, her eyes did not water, her belly did not roil. Horror was merely a sensation, after all, and she had fast grown numb to the recurring nightmare that was life at Saint Jude's.

"Where are we going?" Homer inquired, the quaver was back in his voice.

"You'll see," Sarah replied bluntly, side-stepping as a trio of guards charged past from around the corner to aid their fellows down the hall. She thought she recognized Hargreaves among them.

At last, their harrowing journey came to an end and Sarah was quite pleased with herself for being able to focus on the goal at hand. Saint Jude's was still a madhouse but it was no longer a distracting madhouse. At least not to her...Homer was still looking a shade green around the gills.

"Sorry, Homes," she muttered, beginning to scan the names engraved on the doors of the offices in the Infectious Diseases Ward. "We'll be out of here before you know it though. I just need to find...ah, there you are." She stopped as she found the door labeled _Gregory Burke, M.D. _

"What are we doing at Burke's office?" Homer raised an eyebrow. "Didn't you hear the announcement? He's in a meeting. Oh, and you _still _haven't told me why you wanted me to bring the - "

"All in good time, my Dear Watson," Sarah replied absently. She tried the knob but found it locked. No surprise there. "I don't suppose he left us a key under the rug."

A quick survey of the area around them revealed a suitable key replacement. Humming to herself, Sarah walked a handful of paces to one of the hospitals support pillars and, with a grunt, yanked the fire extinguisher there free of its cradle.

"Woah, woah," Homer protested, raising his hands in a warding gesture. "When you woke me up today and told me you needed a hand with something I specifically agreed so long as it wasn't an _illegal _hand you needed. This is looking _very _illegal to me right now."

"Oh, stop being such a wet blanket, Homer." Sarah scowled, nudging her partner aside. "We'll be in and out before you know it. Besides, if Burke doesn't want people breaking down his doors then he should give them what they want when they ask for it politely. Really, he's got no one to blame but himself."

"The police might see it differently," Homer grumbled but did not press the issue, instead he turned to keep a nervous watch on the other end of the hallway.

"Knock, knock." Sarah hefted the fire extinguisher above her head and brought it crashing down on the knob. Metal ground on metal, wood splintered and the knob hit the floor with a dull _clang_. Gently, Sarah eased the door open and stepped inside.

Not surprisingly, Gregory Burke did not seem to be a man hung up on decoration or personal effects. _No kidding. That would mean the bastard actually has a personality. _His office was practical if sterile in appearance. There were a few pieces of furniture, a large desk cluttered with stacks of paper pushed in front of the study's lone window, and several framed diplomas dominated the far wall. It was the filing cabinet in the corner that demanded Sarah's immediate attention though.

"Bingo."

"Bingo? What bingo?" Homer ducked into the room, having some difficulty keeping one eye on the hallway and one eye on his partner. "Sarah what the hell are we doing here?"

"You wanted to know why I made you bring the crowbar from the MRRU repair kit," Sarah said and pointed at the cabinet. "There's your answer."

"You're serious?" Homer blinked, eyes wide. "We're going to _steal _Burke's files?"

"Not_ all _of them," Sarah grunted, giving her partner an edged glance. "Jeez. Be realistic, Homes. We're only interested in the ones dating back to when the first case of RS was diagnosed. It's the only way we'll be able to trace this thing back to its source. If Burke is still going to pull all that doctor-patient confidentiality bullshit with me then I'm just going to have to go and tell him to stick a crowbar in it, aren't I?"

For a moment, Homer Shields did nothing. Sweat beading down his forehead, his eyes darted between Sarah, the filing cabinet, and the escape route presented by the open doorway. One more glance at Sarah and he noticed the mask of granite her face had become, the lightning bolts dancing behind blue eyes that could never be described as soft or beautiful. Finally, Homer sighed and drew the crowbar out from the inside pocket of his lab coat.

"This is a pretty desperate measure," he complained even as he jammed the bar into the top door of the filing cabinet.

"These are pretty desperate times," Sarah countered and watched as the drawer popped open with a groan and a heave from her partner's shoulders. "Let's get cracking."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Stumbling away from the stretcher, the sounds of combat fading behind him, Doctor Ned Breese slumped against the wall. Scrubbing at his face, Ned panted raggedly as wiped away the last remnants of his patient's puke. Staring at his shaking, bile covered palms in stark terror all Ned could do was shake his head.

_Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit._

The thought continued to repeat in his head until it was a mantra. He had to be infected by this point. RS was similar to all other virus in that it could enter through any mucus membrane - eyes, nose, ears and throat - and he had taken a handful of vomit full in the face. How could he have been so careless?

_I'm doomed. I'm doomed. I'm doomed. _

Mind racing, heart pounding, Doctor Breese wondered how long he had before the change started to take place. A day? Maybe two if he was lucky? It was hard to say. Raccoon Syndrome continued to mutate, sending its victims into what the media had so sensitively named 'the Zombie Stage" faster and faster.

Breathing deeply with his eyes closed, Ned tried to stay calm long enough to take stalk of his symptoms. He was hyperventilating, though that was probably more the work of stress than anything else. He felt dizzy and disoriented. Nausea gripped his guts in an iron vice and, he realized with sudden horror, he was scratching at a maddening itch on his neck.

_So fast? _Again, he shook his head disbelieving. It had hardly been more than twenty minutes since he'd been so unceremoniously thrown up on.

Head swimming, Doctor Breese tried to shake away the cobwebs invading his brain but met with no success. His slender frame began to shake like a leaf in a gale. The room began to spin and Ned found himself falling forward, the world around him making the transition to midnight in less than a minute. Dropping to his knees, Ned hurled a brown stream across the tiles and knew no more.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Get that strap secured!" David Muller bellowed at one of his fellow guards as he threw his bulk across the raving man's chest, pinning him to the gurney. "No! The other one! Hey, doc, we could use a hand over here! Doc?"

Turning his head, Muller saw that Doc Breese apparently wasn't feeling so hot anymore. The skinny egghead had passed out...and tossed his cookies before hand apparently. Laying face down in a pile of his own chuck, Ned Breese was a sorry sight to behold.

_Damn, he just got a little barf on him. _Muller shook his head and snorted with disdain as he left his men to deal with the psycho and went to give Breese a wake up call. _Freaking pussy doctors. If they think this is bad then they wouldn't last a second in the service. _

In the Marines if you fainted, if you showed any weakness, you got a punch in the skull to snap you out of it. Breese was clearly no Marine - not even much of a doctor either if he couldn't stand a bit of puke - but Muller had found that most people proved to be fast learners when it came to picking up on army rules.

"C'mon doc," he said hauling Breese up rudely by the shoulders. "Pull your shit together."

Muller's charge came around quick - so fast it made his heart skip a beat. Doctor Breese's eyes snapped open - revealing milky white irises and tiny black dot pupils. There was just enough time to scream before Ned leaned forward and closed his teeth around Muller's windpipe.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Never thought I'd make a living out of shooting people in the head,_ Hargreaves mused as he leveled his 9mm with the thrashing patient on the gurney. He settled his finger on the trigger but whirled around three-sixty when a blood curdling scream tore the air.

Behind him, Dave was locked in a wrestling match with Ned Breese. The physician gave up about a foot and a hundred pounds to the one man wrecking crew that was David Muller but that did nothing to keep the smaller man from tearing into the security guard - literally. Blood sprayed the wall as Breese barbarically ripped into Muller's jugular with his teeth.

"What the fuck?" Hargreaves was sure he was losing his mind now, watching a tiny little geek like Doc Breese send the giant that Muller was drifting to the floor like an empty pillow case. "Get away from him now!"

Bringing his pistol up, Hargreaves took a step towards the doctor as Dave lay twitching his life out onto the cold tile floor. Crazed but clearly not deaf, Breese's head snapped up at Hargreaves' command. When Harold saw the milky-white eyes he knew there was no reasoning with the man.

"Jesus." The doc had been standing next to him only a few minutes ago and now he was one of those...those _things?_

Another scream from behind had Hargreaves turning again, fast enough to make him dizzy. The RS patient - the _zombie_, as Harold had always thought of them as - had broken clean of the leather restraints and was currently sinking his chomps around one of the other security guards. The man screamed and beat at the creature wildly as it tore a piece of flesh clean from his neck before tearing off his ear and swallowing it down. Hargreaves noticed another of his men was already down, a gash on his neck leaking blood and gore. Gunshots rang out as the other man backed away from the creature firing into its back, his face a contorted mask of pure panic.

"You have to shoot them in the head you idiot!" Hargreaves barked above the reports of the other guard's weapon but his words went unheeded. The man could hear nothing but the voice of his own terror.

"Damn it!" Hargreaves raised his own Beretta, drawing a bead on the side of the creature's head but froze when he felt fingers digging into the laces of his boot. "The fuck?"

Clawing at his leg was a pair of ashen hands that belonged to Dave Muller. His face was grey and peeling, the wound in his neck still fresh and crimson. A wet sigh escaped lips flecked by blood and Hargreaves felt his heart stop as he found himself looking into his friend's eyes. Those haunting white eyes.

"Sorry, Dave but I ain't going with ya." Hargreaves closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Never in all her years as a nurse had Martha Meyer ever seen the ER at Saint Jude's the way it was now. Even after years of budget cuts and poor funding, they had still been able to get patients medical attention without having to first subject them to an unreasonable wait. Now, triage had been thrown out the door. The new processing policy more or less boiled down to take a number and get in line.

_Not that there _is _a line, mind you. _Martha thought with a tired sigh. It must have been a week since the last time she had gotten more than two hours of sleep. With RS running wild through Saint Jude's it was hard enough to find a receptionist in the emergency room let alone a doctor. _I've never seen this place this packed and it's scaring me. With this many people here I can't believe there's anyone left on the streets to riot. Those two thugs at the doors aren't doing anything to ease my mind either._

Shuffling files on the desk, Martha prepared to call the next patient in from the waiting room but couldn't resist squinting towards the pair of Umbrella rent-a-cops stationed by the front door. If an outbreak occured in the ER - beyond what the one they were already dealing with - then it was up to those two to swipe an card through the electronic reader and when the green light turned red that'd be all she wrote. _Lockdown._

_Doesn't matter much to me though. _Martha yawned. _I feel like I've been on lockdown for months anyway. _In truth it had only been a few days since Martha had last seen the refuge of her house but it felt like a hell of a lot longer when she had been reduced to napping in the break room.

"Paul Simpson," Martha announced, calling out the name on the top of the file. "Paul Simpson, the doctor will see you now." No answer from the congregation of human suffering. "Mister Simpson?"

_Wait, I remember him. Shrimpy, fat guy wearing that hideous brown sweater. There he is. _

Mister Simpson was dozing in one of the ER's plastic chairs - one of the lucky few actually able to find a seat this day. Luck was a deeply relative term in Paul Simpson's case though for he was pale as a sheet and held his right hand wrapped in a bandage so caked with dried blood it was nearly as brown as his sweatshirt. Making her way over, Martha gingerly touched the older man on the shoulder.

"Mister Simpson?" She asked gently. "Mister Simpson are you awake?" No response. The shrimp wasn't even snoring.

_Mister Simpson, are you alive?_ Moving her fingers from the man's shoulders to the side of his neck, Martha pressed and waited. Nothing. Not even the barest hint of a pulse. _What's this place coming to? Old men dying in our waiting room. Be nice if the CDC would pull their heads out of their asses long enough to actually offer us some help. _

Sighing, Martha started to withdraw her hand - and froze when cold, clammy hands locked around her wrist. She screamed, shrill and terrified, as Paul Simpson uttered a gurgling moan and sank his teeth into her forearm.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Just out of curiosity but what were you planning on doing if Burke hadn't been called away to that meeting?" Homer asked quietly as his partner - a thick file folder cradled beneath her arm - skulked towards the hallway with her shoulders and head held low as if that would make her invisible to the eyes of any onlookers.

"Hadn't really thought about it to be honest with you," Sarah replied casually. "I guess, looking back on it now though, I would have done to his head what I did to the doorknob."

Homer blinked, unsure if she was joking or not. "Sorry I asked," he mumbled after a moment.

Any reply Sarah might have voiced was interrupted as a cacophony of shots rang out from down the hall. Both CDC researchers flinched instinctively, Homer go so far as to nearly dive for cover. The sound of gunfire was not - unfortunately - an uncommon noise within the walls of Saint Jude's these days but there was never more than one or two shots and rarely did they repeat so closely together.

_That was at least five though, one right after the other._ Sarah thought, straining her ears as another blast echoed up the hall. _Son of a bitch. Did they open up a shooting gallery here without telling me?_

"That can't be good," she mumbled. "Come on. Let's go."

"You want to run _towards _the sound of gunshots?" Homer's expression was incredulous. "Did you leave your brain in your other pair of pants or something?"

_No I just can't stand to not know what's going on. _"Race ya."

Without waiting for a response, Sarah whirled around the corner and was gone in a flash - faster than a fart in a hurricane, as her father loved to say - dashing around the corner. Heavy footfalls followed on her heels a moment later as Homer struggled to keep pace, stuttering protests all the way. Arms pumping, Sarah charged back the way they had come and, when she rounded the next corner, dug her heels in, coming to a skidding, emergency stop.

"Woaaaah," she said as if trying to soothe a bucking horse, jostled slightly as Homer bumped into her from behind, surprised by her abrupt loss of momentum.

"Don't move!" Harold Hargreaves screamed, thrusting a pistol in her direction. Arrayed across the floor behind the security guard was a tapestry of carnage. The doctor Sarah had seen earlier wrestling on a gurney with his patient and a team of security personnel was now dead - filled with enough holes to turn him into a human colander. All those who had taken part in that particular struggle were also dead now as well, pools of blood leaking from punctures in their skulls.

_So much blood. _Bile, hot and acidic rose in the back of Sarah's throat as she spied a familiar face among the dead. David Muller, who had accompanied her through the throng of reporters more than once - even going so far as to twist Tommy Chan's arm almost completely around his neck - lay on the floor with his throat torn out and a bullet through his face. Sarah blinked when she noticed the dark-skinned guards open, glassy eyes.

"They're white," she mumbled. "He was infected."

"Not just him either," Hargreaves breathed. His chest inflated and deflated rapidly - reminding Sarah of a time when she had watched Homer hyperventilate into a brown paper bag. The man's forehead was slick with sweat, his greasy black beard all a tangle, darting out wildly in every direction like tongues of dark fire. "All of them. Are either of you bit?"

"What?" Homer asked, face red and still out of breath from the sprint across the hall.

"You heard me!" Hargreaves shrieked, the weapon in his hands shaking uneasily. "I don't have time for any stupid fucking questions! Did any of those _things _bite you?"

"No!" Sarah yelped, her hands already raised above her head - the only intelligent position to adopt when someone was sticking a gun in your face. "No. We haven't even seen any RS patients - aside from the ones behind you. We just came up here to, uh, grab some paperwork." She waved the file folder in her right hand.

"RS patients," Hargreaves chuckled madly, shaking his head. "That's what you call 'em, huh? Fucking _zombies _is a better name. The doc behind me sank his teeth into Dave and he changed in a matter of minutes. Same with the poor bastards behind me."

_Minutes?_ Sarah's arms were beginning to ache from the exertion of holding them up for so long but what Hargreaves had just said unnerved her deeply. She knew that the illness could be transmitted between hosts via an exchange of tissue - bites for example - but the change was never as rapid as a few _minutes. _It took a day normally or at least several hours. _Is it mutating again? _

"Look," Homer began in that soothing, grandfatherly voice he could adopt as easily as flicking a switch. "Why don't you just put the gun down and tell us what happened? Obviously a lot has gone on here and none of the details are totally clear but - "

Whatever the elder analyst was about to add went unspoken. A chorus of pitiful, empty moans traveled down the corridor followed by the sound of shuffling footsteps. Again the cries filled the hall and Sarah realized there were too many to count. Hargreaves swiveled away from them and shifted his aim in the opposite direction. Sarah lowered her arms - but did so slowly and with no sudden movements.

"Shit," Hargreaves hissed. "More of 'em coming. Must have overrun the entire fucking wing here. Come on, we've got to get off this floor."

_Well, he might be a gun-totting psycho but he does make a good point. _

Deciding that a slightly deranged security guard was marginally better company than a pack of raving killers too sick to realize they were already dead, Sarah only nodded and gave Homer a shove in the direction of the elevator. Without taking her eyes off the hallway ahead, she stabbed at the button blindly, making contact with the key several times just to be sure. The elevator announced its arrival with a cheery tone that seemed to mock the scene of gore and death strewn across the floor in hues of crimson.

"Go, go," Hargreaves breathed harshly as the moans of the infected flooded the air, a choir of suffering and mindless hunger. As the doors of the lift spread apart invitingly, the first of the RS victims appeared.

Limping, the figure stumbled around the corner, landing face down on the tiles. Judging by his white coat and the ID badge pinned to it, the man was one of Saint Jude's medical staff - or _had _been rather. Now his skin was so pale it was nearly translucent, the veins visible beneath its waxy surface. A thin rope of bloody drool seeped out between a pair of cracked blue lips. The man - the _creature _- crawled inexorably forward, a pathetic sight on its hands and knees, clawing desperately at the floor in its haste to reach the warm bodies of the living. Wailing pitifully, the creatures upturned face revealed dull eyes filled with the same milky film common to all those who had been infected with the Raccoon virus.

_Zombies, huh? You weren't too far off the mark, Hargreaves. _

"Freak!" Hargreaves barked at the fallen physician. He stepped forward and pulled the trigger twice, sending up a puff of pinkish red fluid as his rounds punched through the top of the creatures skull.

Gasping, Sarah clamped a hand over her mouth and slammed her eyes closed. She felt her knees turn to jelly and buckle but then Homer was there, one strong arm around her waist to hold her upright. Cold churned in her belly, warning Sarah that she might be sick but the young researcher swallowed the urge.

_So much for being desensitized, _she told herself sardonically. Slowly, she found the strength to open her eyes again but concentrated on Hargreaves' broad back and not the..._thing _he had just shot. The horror of sickness was different from the horror of violence after all, she supposed.

"Oh my God," Homer whispered as he dragged his partner into the back of the elevator. A second later the reason for his exclamation staggered into Sarah's view.

Ten of the creatures...no, eleven. A dozen. More. Men and women. Doctors sporting deep lacerations on their faces and throats. Nurses in blood splashed scrubs. Patients in gowns so stained with their own refuse the garb had begun to rot even more rapidly than its wearer. All, it seemed, had joined the ranks of the very beast they had battled for over a month against.

"So many," Sarah marveled, too astounded to be as scared as she knew she should be. "It's not possible. How could it spread so fast? I knew the hospital staff were coming down with it as well - it was inevitable - but....this? This is insane."

"Tell me about it," Hargreaves grumbled, elbowing the elevator doors shut so he could keep his pistol trained on the infected before them. After a moment the doors closed gradually and Sarah imagined disappointment on that collection of long, pale faces as their trio vanished from view.

"We need to evacuate," Sarah said with sudden conviction as the lift began its slow descent. " We have to gather together all the staff who aren't symptomatic and get them the hell out of here then seal this place from the outside. I'll call Barnes back and headquarters and request a full hot suite. There's no way he can deny me after he hears about what happened here today. We lost the entire hospital for the love of God!"

"Evacuate?" Homer spun his partner around, sank his fingers into her shoulders and looked her sharply in the eye. "Sarah you're jumping the gun. We need to get that wing of the hospital locked down, yes but we don't know how far the syndrome has spread through the hospital yet. If we try and organize an evacuation now we run the risk of releasing personnel who are already infected but not symptomatic yet. We need more information before we do anything."

"It's too late for that!" Sarah yelled, slapping the man's hands away. She abhorred being touched when in a foul mood. "We've run out of time, Homer! You saw those things...there was over a dozen of them easy. You don't think the situation is going to be similar on the other floors. You know how many times we had to extend the RS Wards, there's infected patients in every fucking nook and cranny of this place by now. We need to get everyone who's still healthy _out!" _

"How are we going to manage that kind of an undertaking, Sarah?" The old microbiologists face was heating up but not because he was flustered or embarrassed, as was usually the case, oh no. This was a look Sarah hadn't seen since she had been one of Homes' students: he was straight up and flat out _pissed._ "Tell me how exactly you plan to evacuate an entire _building_ with only myself and Mister Hargreaves there to assist you. You're also forgetting that if this strain is constantly mutating - as it almost certainly _is _based on everything we've seen so far - the three of us could be infected for all you know!"

Sarah narrowed her eyes at the senior researcher. _I'm not a little girl in your classes anymore, old man. _In her mind, she was growling the words. _Don't talk to me like I am. _

"We aren't infected," she answered, moving her lips but not her teeth. They were clenched together so tightly Sarah was surprised they had yet to crack. "I've told you a hundred times. From what I can tell, carrier-to-carrier contact is the only way this thing can spread any - "

"As far as you can tell!" Homer bellowed, pointing an accusatory finger in her direction. It took all of Sarah's self-restraint not to tear the digit off. "You don't know! It's just a theory, Sarah. You can't be sure because you're still too goddamn gr..." He trailed off, forehead beading with sweat and eyes wide. The old fool had caught himself but not soon enough.

"Say it." Sarah hissed, fists tight at her sides.

"Sarah, I'm sorry. You know I didn't mean - "

"Say it!"

"Sarah, I was just angry. I never would have - "

"_Say it!" _Her screech drew a glance from Hargreaves who had been intent on keeping his attention fixed on the doors for most of their downward journey. "Fine, you don't want to? I'll do it for you. What you _meant _to say was that I can't be sure because I'm still too goddamn _green._"

"I'm sorry, Sarah." Homer at least had the decency to drop his gaze. "You have to understand though - "

"Oh, I understand alright." She spat. "You're just like Barnes. Just another miserable old bastard who doesn't think I know the difference between shit and putty."

"Sarah, that's not what I meant. You -"

"Can it," Hargreaves fired back over his shoulder, readying his weapon again. "We're here."

Grudges were a precious thing to a woman like Sarah Waxer. They were something solid, something to hold on to when everything else was coming crashing down around your ears. If you were feeling pissed then at least you weren't feeling helpless. For Sarah, having an axe to grind was better than having a shoulder to cry on any day of the week but when those doors split open her momentary hatred for her partner slipped through her grasp as if it were water.

The word _slaughterhouse _barely scraped the surface of the scene awaiting the trio in the lobby of Saint Jude's emergency room. Perhaps funhouse would have been a more accurate term - Jason Voorhees funhouse.

Tables and chairs had been overturned and tossed aside in clear panic. Bodies lay in heaps on the floor, arms and limbs entwined in an awkward final embrace as the corpses' mouthes hung loosely in eternal silent screams. Fresh blood, wet and red as the setting sun, ran in lazy streams across the floors and down the walls. At the far end of the hallway a pair of Umbrella security guards lay, practically torn limb from limb. Behind them the plexiglass panes in the sliding doors had been smashed to bits. Death hung heavily in the air, a palpable stench.

"We just walked through here," Sarah mumbled.

"Jesus," Hargreaves grunted, face crinkling as the sickening smell must have hit him in the face with all the force of a thrown brick. "What the hell happened down here?"

"There must have been an infected patient down here...maybe even more than one." Homer stumbled over the worlds as he spoke, the color draining from every inch of visible flesh. "The waits here were so long...they must have turned, right here in the ER."

_That's when the feeding frenzy would have begun. _Sarah shook her head. Her gut was making itself dizzy doing backflips and her heart was going out of its way to try and pound its way out of her chest but she had bigger concerns at the moment aside from losing her lunch again.

"They got out." She said eyeing the holes in the doorway where a few last bloody shards of glass remained - apparently those infected with RS weren't put off at the prospect of walking into sharp things. With those three words came a rush of dread and Sarah was thankful for the first time in weeks that she had at least succeeded in quarantining the city. Efforts to isolate the hospital had failed, matters could only get worse from here.

_At least they can't get outside the city. All the cops in town are manning those barricades and they're going to need every body they can find. There's going to be mobs of the bastards the way this thing is spreading. _

Mobs...like the crowd of reporters that had been camped outside the walls of Saint Jude's since Sarah and Homer's arrival. Sarah doubted any of those rats had the sense to simply run. Knowing those creeps they would have all rushed in close when those...those..._creatures _had come shambling out. The press would want the best photos, the goriest close-ups to air on the six o'clock news. She wouldn't be surprised if those nitwits shoved a microphone under one of the infected victim's mouthes for a sound-bite. _They'll get a bite alright. _

"Come on," Sarah was already running for the exit, waving at her companions to follow. "We have to get everybody away from here now!"

Charging outside with Burke's file clamped tightly under one arm, Sarah skidded to a halt. Her warning was no longer necessary. The Raccoon Press, perhaps for the first time since its inception, had gotten the message.

As Sarah had feared, someone had apparently gotten too close to the virus carriers and they had taken full advantage. An older man in a Channel 32 news vest and baseball cap now lay bent back over the granite steps, his throat ripped out. Three creatures in the tatters of hospital smocks had settled down across the poor man's chest to feast. His video camera lay just out of reach.

With one of their own pulled down, the flock of vultures had scattered to the winds. Men and women holding microphones, tape recorders, cameras and notepads tripped over one another in their haste to get away from the approaching horde of abominations. Pushing and shoving, they scrambled madly to reach their cars or company vans, peeling out to the tune of shrieking tires only to crash into one another. Stupidity had made them careless and now hysteria made them blind.

Some simply ran though, pumping arms and legs, throwing their fellows to the ground as they tried to escape the staggering wave of walking dead. Sarah watched, fascinated and terrified as a cameraman in a black windbreaker through a reporter in a crisp grey suit into the waiting arms of a pair of the creatures before racing across the street. A woman in a dark red pant suit tripped over her heels and a nurse in filthy scrubs dug her teeth deep into the journalists shoulder. There was a scream of burning rubber and Sarah jerked her head up in time to see the cameraman in the windbreaker go sailing through the air as a white van bearing a Station Three logo hit him at full speed in the center of the street. Fishtailing wildly, the van swerved around the next corner and disappeared from view.

"We need to get out of here!" Hargreaves shout stirred Sarah from the madness she seemed to be watching in slow motion. "Where the hell's that RV of yours?"

"RV?" Sarah's brow creased. "You mean the MRRU?"

"Yeah, whatever," Hargreaves rolled his eyes. "Where is it?"

Sarah scanned hastily through the crush of bodies lining the street. Dread creeped into the virologists' stomach like a jagged fingernail when she failed to spot the vehicle. Terror turned to jubilation a moment later when her eyes fell across the familiar navy painted chassis.

"There!" She pointed.

"Let's go," Hargreaves swapped the clip in his pistol, cocking the weapon. "Stay close to me."

As they darted down the steps, Homer's hand found its way into Sarah's and, though she hated to admit it even to herself, she was too scared to pull away. She took some comfort in the fact that it had been he who had reached for her first though. At least, that's what she planned on telling herself anyway.

Sarah flinched as Hargeaves' pistol made two reports. The crack of the weapon seemed impossibly loud amid all the chaos. A figure in a blood-soaked lab coat pitched to the right and crashed to the concrete. Two holes dribbled blood between a pair of white, cloudy eyes.

_Pretty good shot for a rent-a-cop, _Sarah mused, staying focused on the Umbrella security guards' back as they elbowed their way through the frenzied mob of reporters. From somewhere farther off the wail of sirens reached Sarah's ears. The steady screech was punctuated every now and then with a hearty bellow from a horn - the mating call of the fire truck and there was a healthy number of them too judging by the racket. Even as the sirens began to fade the distant pop of gunfire and crash of glass could be heard and Sarah realized with a strangely kind of absent fear that the infected were only one of their problems now.

_If they're setting that enough fires to need that many freaking trucks then the city must be rioting by now. _Homer had made his way in front of Sarah now, dragging her through the crowd. _Either that or these...zombies...are everywhere now. That would explain all the gunfire. Hell, maybe it's both. _

Homer reached the MRRU first and yanked the side door open with a strong huff. He climbed up and passed a hand down to Sarah, she accepted and clasped the man's wrist as he lifted her up. Her former professor was not a young man anymore and Sarah could see that exertion was beginning to take it's toll on Homer. His face was pale and damp, features flushed. Each breath the man took seemed to be longer and more drawn out than the one before it.

_Been a long time since you had this much fun, huh, Homes? _He offered her a small half-smile as he pulled her up but Sarah was unable to find the heart to return the grin. Not after what he had said. That he could even think something so hurtful cut Sarah to the core.

Together the two researchers turned to offer a hand up to Hargreaves when Sarah caught sight of something behind the man that made her freeze and cry out. Harold whirled at once slamming the butt of his pistol into the onrushing figures face. The shadow fell, grasping at its nose. A moan, weak and pitiful, escaped its lips but one of pain not mindless hunger.

"Son of a bitch!" The man whimpered and only then did Sarah understand who it was, Hargreaves had blindsided. It was the voice of a rodent - a large, ugly rodent that masqueraded itself as a photojournalist. "You broke my nose!"

"Wait!" She shouted at Hargreaves who was already in the process of adjusting his aim. _This day just keeps getting better and better. _"He's not one of those creatures...well, he's still _a _creature, just not one that's interested in having us for a snack."

"Doctor Waxer, you've gotta help me!" Tommy Chan wailed, apparently already over Harold Hargreaves' assault. There were tears in Tommy's eyes though whether they were a result of his fear or broken nose, Sarah had no idea. "I tried to get away when those...those things came but I got fucking sideswiped coming out of the parking lot. My engine's dead. Please, everyone's going crazy around here! I almost got trampled just trying to get back up the street for Chrissake. Please, Doctor Waxer, I'm begging you!" He began to sob.

Part of Sarah, a part she was deeply ashamed of, considered leaving the little dirtbag right where he was. Let him weep and whine while those monsters tore him to pieces. He had been nothing but a large and unbelievably persistent pain in her ass. What was he to her? Nothing. No, less than that.

_Get a grip, Sarah. _She told herself. _He's a bottom feeder, that's a fact, but no one deserves that fate. You're a doctor, remember? You're supposed to be in the business of saving lives. You just don't get to choose which ones. _

"You're lucky I'm listening to the angel on my shoulder instead of the devil in my ear, Tommy." Sarah said, scowling at the blubbering photographer. "Now get your ass in before I tell Hargreaves to put a mouth where your forehead used to be."

If anything, Tommy looked more surprised than relieved by Sarah's response. When he proved too slow getting to his feet, his mouth trying in vain to voice what Sarah could only assume was his never ending thanks, Harold grabbed hold of the man's grimy jacket and tossed him into the back of the van. With a final look back at the pandemonium raging outside of the hospital, Hargreaves climbed in himself.

"Get us the hell out of here, doc." He barked at Homer, sliding the door shut and punching down the lock.

Climbing into the driver's seat, Homer was able to still the tremors in his hand long enough to turn the key in the ignition and step down on the gas. Sarah dropped into the seat next to him, securing her seatbelt after a great deal of fumbling. Her fingers did not seem interested in obeying her commands anymore. _Adrenaline, _she told herself, her knees knocking together violently now, _just coming off an adrenaline high. _

As they sped away from Saint Jude's, Sarah glanced out her window, back in the direction of the tomb the hospital had become, transformed in less than an hour into a house of death and indescribable horror. The creatures - once sane, rational, healthy men and women - knelt over those who had proven too slow or too unfortunate in escaping their grasping hands, devouring flesh and bone in their singular need to feed. Over the horizon, Sarah could see the smoke from a half dozen fires rising up to blot out the clouds drifting through the peaceful blue sky.

"What was that you were saying about desperate times, Sarah?" Homer muttered grimly beside her.

She had no answer for him.

Author's Note: Sorry for the delay in getting this update posted but this chapter turned into a doozy pretty fast. Anyway, hope you enjoyed it. As always please read and review.


	6. Escort

**Chapter Five: Escort**

"Don't you think that you might be just a little bit...overdressed?" Detective Murphy asked Cobb with a raised eyebrow.

Cobb glanced down at his attire. Like every member of his team, Danny was decked out in full assault gear - flak jacket, M4, utility belt, combat boots, kneepads and fingerless leather gloves. He could understand the cop's point of view - they looked better prepared to storm the beaches of Normandy than escort an accused killer to the airport but when it came to Drake Lincoln, Cobb was taking no chances.

_Especially given what we drove through to get here yesterday. _Danny wasn't interested in getting caught with his pants down again.

"Frankly, no I don't," Cobb replied as Michelle and Godwin loaded a shackled Drake into Murphy's relic of an automobile - the Buick was more rust than paint at this stage in its life but the old wreck was ideal for keeping a low profile. "It's not exactly the Land of Milk and Honey out there, in case you haven't turned on the TV or listened to the radio lately. People here are angry and scared. That combination almost always leads to violence. We were nearly ambushed on the way in, I'm not interested in a second round of that." A flash of movement caught Cobb's eye over by the Buick. He looked over in time to see Drake tell Michelle something that made her snort as she stuffed his head into the backseat. "Besides, in Mister Lincoln's long and illustrious career as a killer for pay he was employed by some of New York's most prolific gangsters. If they've learned that he's turned himself in they'll probably figure he did it because he wants to squeal and cut himself a deal. They won't exactly be thrilled at the prospect of their cleaner spilling his guts to the federal government."

"You really think the mafia - whatever's left of it anyway - would come all this way to attack a police transport just to pop one guy?" The question came from Mick's partner - Detective Clarke, a man less than twice Murphy's age but with a dark, haunted look that should have belonged to a man three times as old.

_Murphy mentioned he was attacked the other day by one of those people with this virus, _Cobb thought studying the younger detective. The other man's features appeared even more wan and haggard in the dim light of the station's underground parking lot. _Let's hope that's as far as it went. If you can contract this thing just by being touched by someone who's already infected...well then we've spent _way _too much time in town already. _

"Who said anything about popping him?" Sheesh asked from where he reclined casually against the hood of the marshal's vehicle. "They might decide it's a better idea just to spring the prick. He's done a lot of good work for the family, after all. It'd be a crying shame to just throw away an asset like that."

"He's really that dangerous?" Murphy's skepticism was one born of experience, Cobb suspected, but he still found the man's doubtfulness taxing.

"He's wanted for over fifty murders in and around New York," Danny replied with a shrug, "and those are just the ones we know about. So, yes Detective Murphy, for the hundredth time Drake _is _that dangerous."

"If you say so," Mick answered, his cynicism as solid as ever. He squinted into the backseat where their prisoner sat demurely, hands folded in his lap. "He doesn't have the look about him though. He doesn't have the ice in his eyes."

"He's no maniac." Cobb said plainly. "Drake is as rational as you or me - and probably twice as smart too. Unfortunately for him, turns out the only thing he was ever any good at was killing so he figured if you're good at something why do it for free?"

_Was the decision for him really as simple as that? _A voice questioned in the back of his mind. _There was that woman. Jessica Hayes. You don't think what happened to her had any bearing on his...career choice, Commander Cobb?_

Forcing the thought from his head like an unwanted guest, Cobb erased the name Jessica Hayes from his memory. She didn't matter. What had happened to her didn't matter. To think otherwise was to make excuses for every crime, every atrocity, Drake Lincoln had committed.

_Murder is murder, _Danny told himself and the hard logic of the phrase - the blind law and order to it - reassured him. _Murder is murder. Crime is crime. Excuses are excuses. _It was all true, as true as facts were facts and as long as he remembered that there would be no need to waver.

"We're wasting time," he said, already moving towards the Buick. "If we're going to get him home in time for dinner let's get moving while the sun's still out."

That the two officers would be joining Cobb's team for the transport irked the marshal heavily. Both men were homicide detectives, the cops that showed up _after _everything had already gone horribly awry. They would be used to tracking down leads from behind the safety of their desks and Cobb trusted neither man to react appropriately if a wrench was thrown into the workings of his plan. Not to mention both were strangers to Drake's history and if the contract killer had a sudden change of heart about turning himself in and tried to stage his own jailbreak, the pair would never know what hit them before it was too late.

Cobb had given his assurances to Detective Murphy earlier in the morning that it would not be necessary for the old investigator and his partner to be a part of the actual escort. Laughing as if Cobb had just uttered a particularly funny remark, Mick had waved away the marshal's words with an arrogant smirk.

"Slow down there, cowboy," Murphy had chortled. "Before you go and jump the gun I should remind you that with circumstances being what they are in the city you can't just show up, grab one of our suspects and enjoy a nice leisurely drive back to the airport. In case you haven't noticed we're operating under a _quarantine _here. Know what that means, Hoss? It means this city is on lockdown and the only way you're getting your butt back to New York is with me holding your hand all the way.

"According to that exception order you ladies got from the mayor, the only way you can clear the city's blockades is with a senior R.P.D. officer accompanying you. That means me and wherever I go, Clarke goes so you better get used to our ugly faces because until we hit the airport you're going to be seeing a whole lot of them."

_You definitely got yourself involved in the right line of work, Detective Murphy._ Cobb slide into the backseat beside a stony faced Drake and bent over to triple-check the man's wrist and leg irons. _He'd be a natural to cast in a Dragnet remake. "Name's Mick Murphy, ma'am. I'm just another hardworking dick with the Raccoon Police Department's 101st. Just call me Mick the Dick." _

"I haven't pulled a Houdini on you, Danny."

"What?" Cobb glanced up, his fingers still curled around the chain that connected the cuffs around Drake's ankles.

"My cuffs," Drake replied with a rattle of chains that would have made Jacob Marley proud. "They're not too tight, so you don't need to worry about me. Secure yet comfortable - so we're both happy." The faintest twitch at the corners of his mouth passed for a smile.

"You're in a pretty upbeat mood for someone who's about to find himself locked in a hole for the next hundred years or so." Snatching his hand away, Cobb fixed the man with a heated scowl.

Drake shrugged and looked away. "Better to go out laughing than crying, I guess."

"Too bad we left the muzzle back at HQ," Michelle commented from Drake's other side. "If you want me to cram my sock between his teeth, you just let me know boss."

Up front, the doors cracked open as Detectives Murphy and Clarke climbed in. Hitting the ignition, Murphy's rust bucket rumbled to life after an unhealthy wheeze from the exhaust. Behind them, the marshal's sedan kicked into gear, its headlights shining in through the rear windshield.

"We're ready to roll when you are, boss," Godwin's voice boomed over the radio mounted to Cobb's shoulder.

"Alright," Danny answered, holding the transmitter down. "remember stay close and keep your eyes peeled. If you see anybody holding anything more dangerous than a feather let me know. We'll set the pace so stick with us. We're going to be moving fast but not fast enough to attract attention. Let's move."

Outside, the sickly, pale blue sky was gradually fading to a polluted grey haze. Bloated, black thunderheads hung low, threatening a deluge of rain and lightning. A cold, lonely wind knifed through the streets, buffeting the metal frame of Murphy's old wagon. Staring out the window, Cobb grit his teeth.

_I hope that's not an omen. _He watched the ominous skies for another moment then lowered his gaze as they started down the road with the other sedan sticking close to their tail.

After studying a map before arriving in town, Cobb had discovered that there were currently more barricades than police stations operating throughout Raccoon City. While the exception order granted to the U.S. Marshal's by the mayor allowed Cobb's team to pass through any of them, Danny had selected one in particular for the morning's departure: the Raven's Gate Bridge. From the bridge crossing it was a straight shot into the countryside that comprised the city's outskirts and from there only a brief drive to the highway that would lead them to the airport.

There was one downside to Cobb's choice of exit. The bridge was the most direct route out for getting the hell out of Dodge but it also lay on the other side of the city. The lengthy drive gave the marshal commander plenty of time to appreciate what Raccoon City had to offer in terms of scenery. It took him only a few minutes to decide that Sczchinski had not been so far off in criticizing the city's tourism board. A distinct improvement was needed to the sight-seeing tour.

Arsonists had turned Raccoon into their playground and the majority of the city's taller apartment and office buildings had been reduced to towering, charred husks. Those homes and shops that had survived the fires had still been forced to endure their share of abuse. Many had been boarded up and sealed with bright orange tape marked with bio-hazard symbols but that had failed to discourage the city's collection of graffiti artists. Black humor seemed to be the current trend in Raccoon with spray painted slogans such as _**THIS IS WHY YOU NEED MEDICAL INSURANCE, PEOPLE! **_scrawled across doors and walls in purple or red four foot letters. Blunter minds had come up with blunter phrases though, Cobb thought as he noted a garage with the words _**FUCK THE POLICE **_written diagonally along its surface in runny black paint.

"Seems like the general consensus around here is that a lot of people need to go fuck themselves, huh, boss?" Marty's voice crackled over the radio as they rolled past more buildings displaying similar sentiments towards the CDC, mayor's office, local hospitals and an unfortunate individual named Doctor Waxer.

"When people are expecting you to get results and you let them down they tend to get a little bit upset." Cobb replied.

_Upset_ was a dramatic understatement. Those buildings that had failed to fall victim to the torches of the arsonists or the spray cans of the taggers had been roughly and simply raped. Windows had been smashed, doors knocked off their frames, the insides of stores left gutted and hollow.

With every looted shop they slipped past, Cobb noticed Detective Murphy's jaw clench a little tighter. He could well understand the veteran lawman's frustration. With the depleted police ranks focused on enforcing the CDC's quarantine order and keeping frightened citizens _inside _the city, they had been forced to grant a long leash to crime. Thieves and vandals had, in effect, been given free reign.

"It's freaking spooky out here," Michelle muttered, glancing out her window, brows knit closely together. "It looks like a giant stormed through this place. Look! Not a single person in sight. Can you believe that?"

"That 'giant' is called Raccoon Syndrome, girl," Mick grumbled from the driver's seat. "Nothing will turn your city into a ghost town faster than a nice sprinkling of plague."

"Amen," Clarke added somberly.

Cobb said nothing, no reply was necessary. Glancing out his own window, he silently agreed with his deputy. The streets weren't just empty - they were _deserted. _Shards of glass, crumpled newspapers and other urban detritus littered the sidewalks and roads but no pedestrians were out for a stroll. Cars had been abandoned all along the asphalt - some even parked at odd angles in the middle of the street as if their drivers had simply decided that had gone far enough on four wheels and would walk the rest of the way. The neglected vehicles had become punching bags for the city's guild of vandals - tires had been punctured and deflated, windows decorated with bricks and doors pummeled with what had to be baseball bats.

_Maybe those drivers didn't just happen to decide that they preferred moving on their own two legs, _Cobb wondered as he studied a battered pick-up where the rear wheels had been removed altogether. There was a dried puddle of blood near the open door. The dark scene brought on dark thoughts and Cobb found himself picturing the hapless motorist dragged from the truck, kicking and screaming, by a mob with a desperate, frenzied need to destroy something glowing in their eyes. He could almost hear the man or woman's pleas for mercy as they were bludgeoned to death in the middle of the road.

"Folks up ahead," Murphy reported abruptly with an edge in his voice, pulling Danny out of his dreary reverie. "Get your fingers on your triggers back there. Might need 'em."

Tension creeping into his shoulders, Cobb sat up straighter in his seat to see over Detective Clarke's head and out the windshield. They were coming up on what was apparently one of Raccoon City's commercial districts, with retailers lining either side of the narrow street. The "folks" Mick had mentioned - the first residents any of them had seen all morning - were, indeed, out to do some browsing - of the five-finger variety. A combined group of twenty or so came rushing out through store fronts where windows and doors had been forcibly removed. Burdened with everything from flat-screen TVs to boxes of shoes - and even one ridiculous looking soul who cradled an armful of electronic toothbrushes - the pack of thieves scampered between buildings in an orgy of free shopping.

"It doesn't look like they're interested in us but stay ready," Cobb said into the radio, using his freehand to thumb the safety off of his M4.

"Copy that, boss." Godwin came back. "Gilly says he can make out a weapon on one of them. The guy in the white tank top has a handgun butt sticking out of his back pocket."

"Fucking vultures," Murphy growled, letting his foot rider harder on the gas pedal.

"Those vultures used to be ordinary men and women, detective," Drake said quietly. "Some of them probably still can't believe what they're doing - even when they're doing it. What you're seeing are people who are acting out because they feel every one they trusted to keep them safe - law enforcement, their government - has given up on them and they're mad as hell about it."

"When did you get so compassionate?" Mick spat. "Did putting bullets through peoples heads give you a better insight into the human condition or something, convict?"

"Technically," Drake said with a sour expression, "I haven't been convicted of anything yet. If anything, you should have phrased that question '_Did putting bullets through peoples heads give you a better insight into the human condition or something, _accused?"

"Put a lid on it, Lincoln," Cobb barked, "or I'll ask Michelle to take her socks off after all."

Passing through the retail district made for a strained twenty minutes, with - Cobb was sure - every member of Drake's escort waiting with stiff backs and taut nerves for the first shot to ring out. Only when the last of the looters had faded to a speck in the rearview mirror did Danny feel his pulse start to slow.

"That was fun," he grunted, flipping his safety back on.

Seconds after Cobb had spoken, the dark clouds overhead opened up. A steady, slow drizzle began to fall as thunder rumbled uneasily through the clouds. No one said a word for the duration of the journey, the onset of the rain seeming to encourage silence. The only sound became the constant rocking of the windshield wipers.

Cobb watched sullenly as droplets of waters streamed down the glass beside him and reflected on all that he had seen since coming to Raccoon. Rioters clashing with the police in broad daylight, arsonists, looters and vandals coming out of the woodwork as they learned the police were all but powerless to stop them. Homes had been ruined, streets left barren and forgotten. Insanity had been given form as an urban nightmare crawling with chaos and fury.

_This virus - whatever it is, wherever it came from - isn't just taking the lives of this city's residents. It's taking the life of the city itself. _

A series of sirens shrieked as a pair of police cruisers and a S.W.A.T. van speeded past the pair of sedans, cutting the silence so violently Cobb could have heard it snap. He squinted as the R.P.D. vehicles zipped around the next corner, sending up a small wave as they slashed through a deep puddle.

"Where the hell are they going?" Michelle asked, siting forward.

"Same place we are," Cobb answered, visualizing that map of Raccoon City in his head. "We're coming up on the bridge," he spoke into the radio. "Stay sharp."

As they took the turn and pulled up the street, coming to an abrupt stop next to a small gas station, Cobb noticed that he hadn't been the only one to decide that the Raven's Gate Bridge was the best path out of town. Civilian vehicles clogged the road from east to west. Concrete blockades had been spaced throughout the the street by the police to prevent anxious citizens from attempting to ram the barricade with their cars and thus many of the vehicles stood idling, their operators climbing out to approach the line of sandbags and police cruisers on foot. The route to the mouth of the bridge was flooded with humanity and not a single man, woman or child present seemed to mind the storm soaking them from head to toe.

"Shit," Clarke hissed, sitting forward suddenly, eyes wide.

"You said," Mick muttered.

Cobb watched as four officers and the members of the S.W.A.T. team that had cut them off only moments ago left their vehicles and began to move among the crowd. He could only assume that the officers had been sent in to encourage the mob to disperse but no one seemed keen on heeding the advice of the police this day. Some simply ignored the black-and-blue clad men grabbing at them while others violently pushed back and were hauled to the pavement rudely for their trouble.

"Wait here," Mick said, "I'm going to see if I can find out what this is all about." Murphy popped his door open and - with a curse - stepped out into the rain.

_I think I can tell you what this is about, _scowling Cobb threw his own door open and with a look that told Michelle to stay put with Drake, followed after Mick the Dick. _These people are tired of living in a hell hole and they want out now. _

The patter of the rain and crash of thunder was nothing compared to the noise from the crowd. Curses were hollered, demands were cried, orders were screamed and there were those who simply shrieked as the police hauled them away in handcuffs or beat them with batons. A flash of movement atop the blockade drew Cobb's attention. A tall figure in dark S.W.A.T. gear stood high upon the wall of sandbags. Gripped tightly in one fist was a loudspeaker.

"**RETURN TO YOUR HOMES!" **The officer's voice boomed above the strikes of thunder and lightning. "**THE CITY IS STILL UNDER QUARANTINE! NO ONE IS PERMITTED TO LEAVE BY ORDER OF THE CENTER FOR DISEASE CONTROL. FOR YOUR OWN SAFETY, RETURN TO YOUR HOMES NOW!"**

**"**_Fuck you!_" Someone yelled above the racket and that lone shout brought on a barrage of others.

"Let us out!" "You can't keep us here! For the love of God we have children with us!"

"If you keep us here we're all going to fucking _die! _Let us out!"

The screaming rose in pitch to the point where Cobb could no longer make out actual words. Everything fell into a raucous, seething, torrent of noise. Pushing and shoving among the sea of people began to intensify. Cobb saw more than one punch thrown and not all of them were aimed at the police. The beast was biting its own tail now.

"I was just thinking something," Mick said, his eyes still on the crowd as rain dripped through his mustache.

"What's that?"

"That I'm starting to regret rejecting your offer to sit this one out."

It was hardly the thing to do at the time but Cobb couldn't keep himself from smiling. "That's funny. I was just realizing how glad I am that you boys decided to tag along."

"**RETURN TO YOUR HOMES!" **The cop with the loudspeaker repeated himself but no one appeared to be listening. Below him bodies continued to jostle and fall. Those parents that had brought their children with them held them high above the press of flesh and bone now - whether to keep them safe from the mob that was even now turning on itself or as an appeal to the hearts of the officers denying them exit, Cobb could not be sure. **"RETURN TO YOUR HOMES OR WE WILL BE FORCED TO PLACE YOU UNDER ARREST!" **

As it turned out, that had been the entirely wrong thing to say. An enraged roar rose among the crowd followed quickly by a volley of stones that had the cops manning the barricade ducking for cover. Cobb found himself thumbing the safety off his weapon for the second time when a droning, buzz reached his ears. His head snapped sharply to the right as a motorcycle tore past the refilling station. Two riders occupied the bike, both dressed plainly, the passenger - a woman judging by the set of her hips - carried a heavy backpack slung over one shoulder. As they sped by the pumps she dropped the bag and tapped the driver rapidly atop his helmet. The man gunned the throttled and screamed in the opposite direction of the Raven's Gate Bridge.

"What the hell -"

A sudden shriek, filled with an impossible kind of terror, rose louder and higher than all the rest, cutting the marshal commander short. Whirling back in the direction of the shout, the strange riders all but forgotten, Cobb looked into the heart of the crowd and fought back the urge to cry out himself.

Those who stood near the center of the mob had pulled away, giving a clear view as a woman lay thrashing on the street, another woman straddled her chest, her teeth sealed tightly around the other's throat. The biter began to twist and snap her head violently from left to right, bringing up a spray of blood. Suddenly more screams and cries of agony sounded among the gathering as men and women were hauled to the ground by their neighbors who - in a fit of spontaneous madness it seemed - began to bite at throats, arms and legs - any piece of exposed flesh.

"Oh my God," Cobb breathed, frozen in place by the suddenness, by the sheer _insanity _of what he was seeing.

Tensions already at their boiling point, the abrupt attacks finally blew the top off the kettle. Anger gripping their hearts, horror clawing at their minds, the crowd loss any sense of rationality and charged the bridge blockade. Desperate to escape - to survive - the mob lashed out with every weapon available to them: stones, bricks, bats, kitchen knives and even bare fists. Cobb flinched instinctively as the distinctive crack and pop of handguns began to ring out.

"Fuck, not again." Mick reached inside his jacket for his weapon as the police launched a volley of tear gas into the frothing crowd. White mist seeped out to choke the road and more screams lifted high into the air.

_Again? _It was all Cobb had time to think before the hiss of led sounded so close he nearly dropped into a crouch. Murphy did drop - but with his eyes closed and three smoking holes in his shirt.

"Shit!" Cobb reached for his radio, ready to tell his team to about face and haul ass. The words never left his mouth.

To his right, there was a roar of heat and light followed by a horrific blast. As the gas station went up in a red-hot blaze the concussion threw Cobb back against the side of the sturdy Buick. Smoke, flame, brick and mortar were still flying skyward as the back of Danny's head struck the window. The sound of its shattering was the last thing Cobb heard before darkness descended.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Move! Over here!"

_Who is that?_

"Keep your head down, goddamn it!"

_Where am I? What happened?_

"Hurry the fuck up!"

_Hurr-ay the fack up? Who talks like _that. _Wait. Sheesh does. Marty?_

Cobb's eyes fluttered open and the world came spinning back into view. He realized he was moving even though his legs were not. Flat on his ass, someone was literally dragging his sorry butt down the road.

Dizzy, disoriented and feeling as if the marrow in his bones had been replaced with rubber, it took every ounce of Cobb's strength to glance back over his shoulder. The sight of Drake pulling him down the street by the collar of his vest nearly gave the marshal a heart attack. Michelle stood at the killer's side, firing her M4 at a target Cobb couldn't see. The report of the weapon so close should have had Danny grimacing but everything sounded far away and underwater.

Absently, he reached up and pressed a finger into either ear. Both came away wet with blood. He squinted, rubbing the crimson digits against his thumbs, confused by the sight.

"What happened?" He managed to groan.

"You got blown up," Drake replied matter-of-factly as he shuffled towards some unknown destination as fast as his leg bracelets would allow. Beside him, Michelle fired another short burst. "We all did actually."

_Blown up? _Cobb was about to ask Drake just what the hell he was talking about when a light off to the side caught his eye. Where once a gas station had stood there was now only a crater surrounded by smoking rubble. Flames licked up the sides of the hole, reaching futilely for the sky from which the killing rain fell.

With the sight, memory came back in a sudden, painful flood. The mob forcing them to stop. The crowd turning on itself - _devouring _itself. Mick going down with three bullets in him. The motorcycle. The backpack. A sudden burst of heat and pain.

"It was a bomb," Cobb mumbled, feeling ashamed for taking so long to come to his senses. "They dropped a _fucking _bomb. Jesus! Mick! Is Mick -"

Movement to his left, drew Cobb's gaze and answered his question all at once. Detective Clarke had a prone Mick Murphy by the arm and was hauling his weight in the same manner and direction as Drake was doing with the marshal commander. Firing his pistol into a shadowy mass that Danny could not make out, Clarke held his jaw snapped firmly shut, his face a mask of concern that defied description.

"Yeah. They had a bomb." Drake replied as he pulled Cobb behind the black sedan Sczchinski would have been steering. With a heavy sigh, the hitman fell onto his back, panting. "Did one heck of a number on our car too. Flipped it clean onto its side. Good thing we were strapped in."

Only now did Danny notice the wounds the others had suffered when the station had gone up. Drake had a fresh laceration above his right eye to go with the collection of scars he had accumulated over the years. As Michelle dropped into a crouch beside them and Clarke dragged Mick into view, Cobb could see that none of them had escaped unscathed. Both had suffered small nicks and scrapes across their faces - the work of broken glass and twisted metal.

"Is he all right?" The voice crashed through the other sounds - screams, shouts, gunshots, moans - like a clap of thunder. Cobb craned his neck to the right, wincing with the effort to see Godwin, Sheesh and Gilson all looking at him with mixed expressions of worry and relief. His deputies had arrayed themselves in a defensive line across the body of the sedan, weapons extended in the direction of the bridge.

"I'm fine," Cobb croaked, shaking his head to try and stop the bell inside his skull from ringing so loud. It worked, a little and he pulled himself upright long enough to get a grip on his carbine. "If I die, it'll be from embarrassment." _Christ, Drake had to drag my ass all this way. A murderer just helped save my life. I think I might puke. _

Deciding that if that was the worst that happened to him this day he would count himself lucky, Cobb looked over to where Clarke kneeled over his partner. The man's face was set in stone as his hands probed under Murphy's jacket, running across his chest. Finally, the lines in the man's forehead eased and his eyes flashed with something that was half joy and half annoyance.

"Hey," he shouted, giving Mick a slap on either cheek and a mean shake. "No sleeping on company time, old man! Get up you big wuss."

Groaning, Mick opened one eye slowly and then the other. He started to sit up but grimaced and settled for leaning back on his elbow. One hand reached up to prod delicately at his ruined shirt. "What happened?" His voice was thick and groggy.

"You got shot," Clarke answered with a half-smile. "You took it in the vest though. Just think about all the times you bitched about how heavy those things are and now one saves your wrinkly butt. I think you owe kevlar manufacturers everywhere an apology."

"This was my lucky shirt," Mick grumbled, frowning as he stuck a finger through one of the bullet holes. "Alright. Now I'm pissed."

Shaking his head, Cobb turned his attention to more pressing matters. Lifting himself up so that he could just see over the hood of the sedan, Danny found himself wondering if he were still unconscious. If what he was witnessing was still nothing more than a bad dream or a hallucination brought on from hitting his head.

White smoke hung over the street like a chemical cloud as the tear gas had yet to dissipate. Many had been driven onto their hands and knees, choking and coughing as the vicious mist set their eyes and lungs aflame. Those that hadn't been discouraged by the gas had been met with much stiffer resistance from the police. Cobb watched in mute horror as those that tried to break through the line of uniforms were cut down by a hail of fire all along the barricade. Bodies pitched backwards or dropped bonelessly where they stood, falling to stare unseeing at the weeping sky above. Fueled by adrenaline and desperation, many fought on, struggling in vain to break the line of officers, lashing out with what crude weapons they had been able to fashion.

For all those that had remained to battle in vain against the police, even more had given up the cause and were now in full retreat. Most simply charged headlong past where Danny and his band squatted, seeking whatever shelter they could find, paying no heed to their surroundings. Two men - one in a red baseball cap, the other in a dripping bomber jacket - separated themselves from the pack suddenly, catching sight of the officers before them. Cobb noted the pistols each man held loosely.

"Fuck," shouldering his weapon hastily Cobb set his sights on Baseball Cap. "Don't do it!"

Whoever the two were, they had come to the barricade spoiling for a fight with the police and while they had found only defeat, Cobb could see it in their eyes that neither had been dissuaded. He could read the outrage in either man's face, see all the pent up hate and frustration. He couldsee the need there, the need to _hurt, _to release all the hate and rage.

Baseball Cap's arm began to rise and Cobb put a three round burst through his chest. Blood sprayed the other man's face but he affected not to notice. Snarling, Bomber Jacket managed to squeeze off a shot that struck the sedan's front tire. It was still hissing air when Gilson and Tucker ventilated their attacker, sending him flailing to the pavement.

"Goddamn it!" Cobb threw himself down as a blast tore across the hood of the sedan. A dozen holes through sheet metal and into the engine. The car belched smoke and oil as another blast rocked it. A third shattered the driver and passenger side window. "What the hell is that?"

"Shotgun!" Drake called ducking down with his hands above his head. "Someone out there has a shotgun!"

"Would have been nice if you had managed something earlier!" Sheesh complained, locking a fresh magazine into his M4.

"Shut up!" Cobb roared, wiping glass from his shoulders. "Cover me!"

As his team held their ground, blind-firing across the hood of the car, Cobb lowered himself onto his belly. The smoke rising from the devastated engine would spoil anything he could see from the shelter of their vehicle and running into the street would be suicide. Extending his carbine under the sedan Danny watched as the legs of the fleeing Raccoon citizens stormed past, waiting for the one pair that would stand out. It took him only a minute to distinguish the set of boots walking methodically away from those that rushed by in panic. Another thunderous blow punched into the side of the car and a twelve gauge shell clattered onto the pavement next to those boots.

Holding down the trigger on the M4 Cobb watched as the small slugs punched a trio of holes through gunman's shins. His legs failing him, the figured dropped into a view - a bearded man in a green hoodie and pair of camouflage cargo pants. When Danny saw the sawed off shotgun still gripped in one hairy fist he put another burst through the man's torso.

"Clear!" Cobb hollered, pushing himself back onto his feet.

"Uh," Michelle said, peering through the thinning smoke seeping from the sedan's engine block. "Somebody tell me what I'm looking at."

Heart pounding, Danny squinted through the last few black tendrils in the direction his deputy was looking. Most of the crowd had either run for the hills or been gunned down. The streets were empty save for the bodies strewn like broken dolls across the surface of the road. Cobb felt his stomach roil as he watched figures climbing atop the dead to sink their teeth into the still forms. He remembered witnessing one woman attacking another in such a way just before the explosion but had hoped the recollection was simply a product of the knock he'd taken to the skull.

"Jesus," Sheesh whispered suddenly. "Look!"

Cobb blinked, convinced he had to be seeing things, that the throbbing bump on the back of his head had to be taking it's toll, as several of the dead laying in the middle of the road _stood up. _Clumsily, one then two then a half dozen and more lurched back to their feet. Hollow, soulless groans filled the chill afternoon air. Men and women began to lurch upright and stagger towards the line of panicked officers at the blockade. Even from thirty feet away, Cobb could make out figures rushing back and forth among the ranks of uniforms. Strained, frightened voices rose but Danny couldn't quite make out what they were saying.

"Did you see their eyes? They look like they're blind." Drake whispered. "Christ, is this _real?"_

"It's worse when they get up close and personal," Clarke muttered then grabbed hold of Danny's sleeve. He fixed him with a stare that stabbed a cold blade through the marshal's gut. "We need to get out of here. _Now." _

Opening his mouth to reply, Cobb was interrupted by the dull stutter of gunfire. He looked back towards the barricade as the police opened fire on the pale, shambling corpses. Hot lead sliced through flesh and shattered bone but the dead felt no pain and did not slow. Blood splashed onto the pavement and was washed away by the slow drizzle but the dead paid no notice and did not slow. Those that fell with too many wounds to count simply picked themselves up and continued their march.

They did not slow. They did not stop. Now, as the creatures reached their positions, began pulling themselves up over the sandbag wall, Danny could make out what the voices were saying clearly for their were no words to distinguish. Only the screams of the dying.

"Ho

ly crap," Gilson muttered, sweat trickling out from under the brim of his cap as he looked on with wide, fevered eyes. "Why won't those...those...whatever they are...why won't they die? They shot everything they had at them."

"You have to shoot them in the head," Clarke replied so calmly that it drew a stare from everyone, including his partner. "You heard about my run-in with a virus victim? Well, let's how it ended and _that -" _he pointed towards the direction of the barricade where the echoes of gunshots were becoming more and more intermittent, " - is what Raccoon Syndrome does to you."

"It turns you into a fucking _zombie_?" Sheesh spat incredulously. "Are you freaking kidding me?"

"You've seen it for yourself," Clarke said, annoyed before grabbing hold of Danny's wrist again. "We need to get the hell out of there. When they're done with the poor bastards at that barricade they're going to come gunning for more food and that means us. Trust me, it was hard enough putting down one of those things and there's more than three dozen in that crowd over there."

"We're not driving either, boss." Godwin wrapped a knuckle against the side door of the sedan. "Not unless you took a crash course in engine repair you never told us about."

"They blew up my car," Mick said as if just coming to the realization. He flashed a scowl towards Clarke. "Now I'm _really _pissed."

"All right, we're going." Cobb looked to Michelle. "Undo Drake's ankle cuffs."

"Are you serious?" She asked, quirking an eyebrow.

"Yes, I'm serious." Danny said exasperated. "We're going to need to leg it for awhile and I don't want to be waiting around for Shuffles there to catch up."

Nodding, Michelle began to unfasten their prisoners anklets. As the cuffs snapped open, Drake locked eyes with Danny. The killer's face was unreadable but Cobb knew what he was thinking.

_You think I owe you something, don't you? _The marshal's gaze should have drilled a hole through the other man's skull. _Yeah, you might have dragged my sorry ass out of harm's way but that doesn't change anything between us, pal. You're still a rat and I'm still the Orkin Man._

"Don't get any ideas, Drake." Cobb barked. "Nothing's changed...and don't even think about having a change of heart and running off. I catch you so much as looking in the wrong direction and I'll shoot you myself."

"I wouldn't dream of it, Danny." The corners of Drake's mouth twitched. "Like I said, you've got the only ride out of town."

"I hate to criticize the game plan," Sheesh said, "but do we _have _a game plan? Where are we going exactly?"

Cobb looked back towards the barricade. The police had been overrun. The sounds of raised voices and gunfire had faded back into silence and though it was selfish, Danny was thankful for it. A dying man's scream was the worst sound on earth.

_Granted, that moaning those things make is a close second. _Cobb shook his head and tore his eyes away from the bloody mess that stained the length of the blockade. _There were almost fifty of those things, easy. There was nothing we could have done for any of them...just die. _It was the truth but no solace came with that thought.

"As far away from that as we can get," Cobb replied. "If we can, we'll try to get through one of the other barricades. If nothing else, we need to report that one of the blockades has been overrun. If those things make it outside the city..." Danny shuddered.

A moment later, Cobb had everyone up and moving towards an alley around the corner from where the gas station had been. With looters lining one street and...whatever the virus victims had become filling another, the marshal commander would spend as little time as possible in the open. Marty and Michelle took the point with the two Raccoon detectives at their backs. Cobb passed the task of babysitting Drake over to Gilson and Tucker. The pair could fill in at linebacker for any NFL club so keeping the lanky assassin behaved should be a piece of cake. Cobb himself assumed the responsibility of guarding the rear - more so that if Drake did decide to make a break for it, he'd have to go straight through Danny Cobb first.

_There's something going on behind your eyes, Drake. Something I can't read...and I don't like that. _The marshal grunted. Just one more worry to throw on the list. _We've got rioters, cops killing the people they were sworn to protect and a virus that turns people into mindless cannibals..._and _I've got a contract killer to keep both eyes on. With so many ways to die around here how do I choose just one? _

As the troupe began to make its way through the alley, feet dashing through puddles that were rapidly growing wider as the rain intensified, Cobb paused a moment. Looking back through the dying flames of the gas station conflagration, Danny's eyes passed across the dead who lay splayed across the open road, the downpour washing streams of blood into the storm drains. Eyes that could not see were stared at nothing. Mouthes that could not speak hung open in breathless screams.

Another memory hit Danny hard then, an iron fist to the belly.

_There were children in that crowd. _

Thunder crashed, punctuated by the ravenous moans of the dead with eyes that could still see and mouthes that could still feed. Tightening the hold on his weapon, Cobb turned and ran to catch up with his friends.

Author's Note: Sorry for the delay in updates again. Another large chapter but I hope you enjoy it. Many thanks to everyone who's reviewed so far. I really appreciate the feedback so please keep it coming.


	7. Basest of Instincts

**Chapter Six: Basest Of Instincts**

_To: The Attention of Doctor Gregory Burke, Head of the Infectious Diseases Ward_

_Reporting Physician: Melissa Cartwright_

_Date: September 10, 1998_

_Doctor Burke,_

_I am writing this report to inform of you of a case that will no doubt pass across your desk soon. Today, just after 1:00PM the ER received a patient by the name of Vincenzo Gorotti, his details are contained in the file attached to this report. _

_Mr. Gorotti came in complaining of a severe skin rash and nausea. Upon my examination of the patient I found the entirety of his abdomen and chest to be covered in wide blotches of red hives ranging from six to ten inches in diameter. Furthermore, Mr. Gorotti was running a fever nearly fifteen degrees above the norm yet, remarkably, remained lucid enough for conversation. (I have attached photos of the hives to this report for your consideration.)_

_When asked how long he had been experiencing these symptoms, Mr. Gorotti informed me that he had noticed the hives two days ago but had dismissed them as "nothing big" at first. He claimed the nausea and fever had onset only yesterday. The presence of the hives coupled with such a high temperature led me to suspect a tropical illness, even a parasite, but when I inquired as to the patient's profession and recent travels he would tell me only that he worked "for the city" and had not left the country in nearly three years._

_I made the decision to place Mr. Gorotti in observation for the evening and put him on an IV drip of general antibiotics and administered a topical ointment as he complained that the hives were maddeningly itchy. That night at roughly 7:00PM the patient was placed on morphine as his nurse discovered him scratching a bloody swath across his stomach, screaming that his skin was on fire. The patient was then administered a sedative and slept through the night._

_I checked in on Mr. Gorotti this morning at roughly 8:00AM and found that his fever had risen ever so slightly, no more than a degree but the effect it seemed to have on the patient was profound. Mr. Gorotti was still responsive but far less articulate, capable of only answering the most basic questions in one or two word answers. During my visit with him he informed me several times that he was thirsty and itchy. I do not doubt either claim as he was sweating enough for three men and the hives, now as hard and flaky as a lizard's scales, also covered his arms and legs. Despite his complaints, Mr. Gorotti was not taken by any fits of scratching as he had been the night before. He proved exceptionally lethargic, barely able to even sit up straight. Noticing the dreamy, glassy look in the patient's eyes I ordered his morphine drip reduced, fearful of the effects it might be having on his mental capacity given his current state._

_I apologize for the longwinded tone of this report but I believe it is important for you to be aware of the background to better understand the events that transpired later that afternoon. Just after 12:00PM the ER received two more patients: a man named Rick Larson and his wife, Tanya. Both patients were experiencing symptoms identical to those of Mr. Gorotti though to a lesser degree. The patches of hives covering Mrs. Larson's abdomen were only two to four inches in diameter and those of her husband were even smaller. Both complained of queasiness and were running fevers but only three to four degrees above the norm - nothing compared to that suffered by Mr. Gorotti. _

_I made an interesting discovery when questioning both patients about their recent comings and goings. As it turns out Rick Larson is also a city worker - he is one of a crew that regularly performs repairs, maintenance and upgrades to the Raccoon sewer system. Vincenzo Gorotti is his supervisor. _

_When I informed Mr. Larson of the fact that his boss was laying in a bed only a couple floors up he had only nodded but seemed highly unnerved by the news. Almost without thinking he had turned to his wife and said, "So that's why he took the last few days off sick." Curious, I asked Mr. Larson how many others were part of his team and he told me three: Bryce Rosh, Todd Mickelson, and Brenden Gordon. _

_I transfered Mr. Larson and his wife into the care of Doctor Tan and phoned hospitals and walk-in clinics in the surrounding area with the names. The South Street Walk-In had been visited by Todd Mickelson earlier in the day, they had taken one look at him before demanding that he get himself over to Raccoon General immediately. Raccoon General had yet to see Mr. Mickelson but they did have Bryce Rosh in their care. I spoke to the physician responsible for his case who informed me that Mr. Rosh was suffering from a rash similar to the one afflicting his co-workers but was not experiencing any nausea or rise in temperature. I called the home of Mr. Gordon but did not get an answer. _

_It is now 10:00PM and at the time of this report Mr, Gorotti has fallen into a coma, Tanya Larson is constantly screaming and tearing at patches of hives that cover nearly half her body and her husband is running a fever nearly ten degrees too high. It is my belief that the connection between these men is too strong to be ignored. Whether this illness was contracted as a result of the men's working conditions or some other cause, yet to be brought to light, the fact remains that with the infection of Tanya Larson it has proven itself to be contagious. As such it is my recommendation that until the root of this disease can be located the ER here at Saint Jude's and Raccoon General should be placed under immediate and on-going quarantine. _

_I will keep you apprised of the situation as it develops. _

_Sincerely, _

_Melissa Cartwright_

_Supervising Physician, Saint Jude's Hospital_

With a heavy hand, Sarah reached up and scrubbed at her eyes furiously. It was barely past noon yet her exhaustion ran bone deep. _This must be what marathon runners feel like. _She rubbed at leg muscles that seemed to have transformed to a cross between rubber and Jell-o. Remembering the harrowing dash from the steps of Saint Jude's to the MRRU made the young physician shake her head. _All right, maybe that description isn't totally apt. I doubt any marathon runners have to haul ass away from a horde of the living dead intent on having them for breakfast. How many people would tune in to ESPN to see _that, _I wonder? _

Sensing eyes hovering over her shoulder, Sarah whirled and threw an icy glare into the face of Tommy Chan. The photographer failed to notice at first, engrossed as he was in the effort of squinting down at the open file folder in her lap. When Sarah snapped the manilla folder closed the greasy little weasel jumped and flashed her a guilty smile.

"What's that thing say anyway?" Tommy's tone was conversation; her stare was murder.

"Let me check," she replied, opening the sheaf of papers for a moment and pretending to scan a few lines. "Oh yeah, here it is. It says that if Tommy Chan doesn't stop staring over Sarah's shoulder like the nosy rat he is then he's going to catch her elbow right between his pathetic, shriveled family jewels."

"Hey, just asking was all. You don't need to be such a bitch." Tommy stalked away grumpily and would have been the picture of righteous indignation if not for the hand that moved surreptitiously towards his balls.

Flipping the first page of the report over, Sarah glanced at the attached photographs with only a passing eye. The rash was nothing she hadn't already seen a hundred times before in the Saint Jude's emergency room or her numerous RS wards. Inevitably, the patches of crusty red sores would putrefy and gradually fade from an angry shade of crimson to dull blotches of gray, brown or yellow. The change in color was always an indicator that the host was descending into the latter stages of the Raccoon virus and the coma that served as the disease's crescendo, before the climactic and horrific awakening, would be soon to follow. Though it was tremendously insensitive, Sarah had come to think of the patches of hives as "rot spots".

Clipped beneath the photographs of Vincenzo Gorotti's midsection was a series of medical charts - one for each of the patient's mentioned in Doctor Cartwright's report. Sarah scanned each document quickly but carefully, searching for any trends or similarities among the infected aside from the fact that they had chosen to work knee deep in the piss and shit of their fellow residents. Mentally, the virologist had her fingers crossed as she read line after line of chicken scratch, praying for that one "A-ha!" moment where she found the connection that would kick wide the door to figuring out what made the RS virus tick.

_Come on, baby, show me something I can use. _Sarah willed the answer to jump off the page and slap her in the face as the medical histories of Vincenzo Gorotti, Bryce Rosh, Todd Mickelson, Brenden Gordon, Rick and Tanya Larsongrew crumpled between her frequently flipping fingers. _I know you're in there, _her brows knit together so tightly a line of pain lanced across her forehead as her eyes mined for the golden answer that would reveal a way out of this nightmare but came away with only a load of useless dirt. _Come on, you bastard. I know you're in there, just show me where. _

"Gorotti had an ulcer and was on nitrates for a genetic heart disease...Rosh suffered from acute asthma...Brenden Gordon had arthritis in both knees..." Sarah muttered the details of each file to herself, an old habit from university that helped her focus, organize her thoughts. Now, it only served to frustrate her further. As she spoke each man's ailments aloud it seemed to reinforce just how random and erratic the information was. "Christ! You'd think something Burke keeps locked in his top drawer would have something...oh, I don't know..._useful _in it! There's nothing in this pile of _crap _I can learn anything from!"

With a flustered snarl, Sarah slammed the thick file folder down onto the bench beside her and perilously close to the outstretched leg of Harold Hargreaves. Jumping in his seat, the Umbrella security guard looked up from the pistol he had been checking for the third time in fifteen minutes and flashed the young doctor a glare reserved for the legally insane.

"You don't deal very well with not getting your own way, do you, doc?" He asked with an eyebrow quirked.

"You don't even know the half of it." Homer grumbled from the driver's seat, his knuckles turning white on the wheel as his steered through a curtain of rain and whatever debris the population of Raccoon City had paved their streets with in recent days.

"Shut up, up there!" She snapped back. "I'm still pissed at you, Homes or did you forget that? _You _don't even want to know where I think you should stick your opinions about me right now."

"Some place dark and unpleasant to the nose, I'm sure," her partner replied then went back to focusing on navigating the obstacle course that passed for the city's roads. Despite the police blockades surrounding Raccoon's every entrance and exit, many had still attempted to flee the confines of the city only to be caught up in the chaos of the riots. As a result, the streets were now littered with abandoned vehicles...and the bodies of their owners.

None of the corpses Sarah had seen since escaping the hospital belonged to the infected at least none that had already become symptomatic. There were too many of them grouped so closely together, for one thing. For another from what she could make out through the windows of the MRRU the dead that clogged the roads had been killed as a result of gunshots, stab wounds and crude but effective blunt-force trauma. Whether the crowds had finally turned on each other or the police had arrived to break up a group of demonstrators only to have serious differences arise in a hurry, none of the dead here could be blamed on the virus.

"It's simple algebra," Homer had commented after they noticed the first of the bodies splayed across the middle of the road, "if fear is the value of anger and madness is the value of violence then desperation plus fear equals madness." No one had found that to be particularly clever at the time.

_The syndrome might not have killed any of these poor bastards directly but that doesn't mean it wasn't the cause, _Sarah thought, glancing out the window. The sight of so much blood being washed through the streets made her skin crawl. _The virus isn't just taking lives, it's gnawing away at every last root of this city's sanity...and there's not a damn thing I can do to stop it, apparently. _

Sighing, Sarah scooped up the folder she had lifted from Burke's office and began to leaf through the pages again. An annoying little voice in the back of her skull scolded her for a fool.

_Don't you realize there's nothing in there? _It chided as she turned page after page of case history and patient details. _None of the doctor's here had a clue about how RS operated or how to shut it down. Not even Burke, as much as he liked to pretend otherwise. Don't you get that?_

_Sure, I do, _Sarah spat back at her internal nagger, _but in case you haven't noticed I don't have a whole lot else to go on. So shut up, brain, and help me solve this already. _Doctor Waxer giggled suddenly, drawing a curious - and slightly frightened stare from Tommy.

"What's so funny?" He demanded.

"Nothing," Sarah said without looking up. "I'm just arguing with my own brain, that's all."

"You're nuts," Tommy said with wide eyes, looking to Hargreaves for support. "She's nuts, right? It's not just me that's noticed that, is it?"

Hargreaves grunted a reply but said nothing and that suited Sarah's patience just fine. Setting aside the case files of each patient along with their photographs, Sarah uncovered yet another report designated for the attention of Gregory Burke.

_To: The Attention Of Doctor Gregory Burke, Head of the Infectious Diseases Ward_

_Reporting Physician: Jonathan Tan_

_Date: September 13, 1998_

_Doctor Burke,_

_Please forgive the lateness of this update. Since Doctor Cartwright was infected it has been extremely chaotic here in Ward One. Since I have received no communication from you since the time of Melissa's infection I can only assume that you have been bogged down with troubles of your own._

_ The influx of cases tied to the illness we are now referring to as Raccoon Syndrome has been only a part of the problem. Due to Doctor Cartwright's quick descent into the comatose stages of the virus it has been exceptionally difficult for me to uncover the bulk of the data she has managed to gather on the syndrome thus far. What notes I _have _found have provided me with virtually no information that could lead to potential containment or treatment solutions. _

_I am afraid that I honestly have very little to report in the way of new information. As you are already aware, on the 11th of September while checking in on Vincenzo Gorotti, the first reported case of RS, Doctor Cartwright was attacked when Mr. Gorotti woke unexpectedly from his coma. Two nurses and two orderlies were also assaulted by Mr. Gorotti who, in a demented state, proceeded to bite and claw anyone who came too close. In the end it took four men to restrain him. _

_Though her injuries appeared superficial, within two hours Doctor Cartwright became symptomatic, exhibiting a high fever and breaking out in hives. By the sixth hour, Doctor Cartwright had grown despondent and unresponsive. By hour nine she had slipped into a coma. I am saddened to report that she awoke later that night in much the same state as Mr. Gorotti and bit her orderly. _

_Due to the seeming inevitability of these attacks once patients have recovered - and I use the term as loosely as possible - from the comatose phase of the virus, I have made it standard protocol that once any RS patients have entered this stage of the virus they are to be bound to their beds. _

_I am pleased to report that this safety measure has proven successful in preventing the spread of the infection as Mrs. Tanya Larson and the two nurses that were attacked have all since come out of comas themselves and are exhibiting behavior that can be described as manic. They thrash and wail, gnash their teeth and seem completely incapable of any form of rationality or communication. _

_I know this may sound extreme but it is my recommendation that hospital security be armed from now on as there have been reports among the staff of RS patients managing to break their restraints. If this is not possible then it must be stressed to _all _staff the importance of maintaining their distance when dealing with any violent RS patient. A single scratch seems to be enough to cause infection and if we have learned nothing else from the situation with Doctor Cartwright it is that retrovirals are wholly ineffective._

_As far as treatment options go our efforts at finding a remedy to the disease have been met with defeat after defeat. My staff has tried everything from traditional antibiotics to experimental drugs yet to be approved by the FDA and none have proven capable of even slowing down the progression of RS. At this rate I'm almost ready to begin employing homeopathic medicine. _

_We would stand a better chance of manufacturing an antigen if we could understand the functionality of the syndrome but the test results are confounding our lab technicians to say the least: blood samples from living hosts that are already coagulated, ocular fluid literally rotting, and levels of testosterone in males and females shooting clean off the charts. The unnatural - and unbelievable - levels of hormones could explain the hosts aggressive behavior but as for the other results...they simply make no sense. They would indicate that our patients are already dead. _

_One observation I have noted is that while the primary target of the disease is no doubt the central nervous system, the transition from infection to violent dementia appears to occur faster in females. This may indicate a genetic component to RS wherein the female chromosomes better foster the growth of the virus. Further testing will be needed to confirm this finding, however, and our technicians are spread thin as it is. I have appealed to other hospitals in an effort to pool resources but have found their physicians to be as confounded as ours. _

_Until such time as a vaccine can be found I am left with no other option but to reinforce Doctor Cartwright's earlier assertion that Saint Jude's be quarantined. This virus is unlike anything the medical community has ever seen and it's capacity for transfer and devastation is unimaginable. All measures to contain Raccoon Syndrome must be taken. I will continue to keep you informed of any updates as they arise._

_Yours,_

_Jonathan Tan_

_Supervising Physician, Saint Jude's Hospital_

Shuffling through the rest of the folder, Sarah looked for any more situation reports but found only mish-mash of patient photographs, medical histories and graphs depicting the results of blood work and pulmonary tests. Blowing out an explosive breath, the frustrated virologist resisted the urge to tear out lock after lock of blonde hair and instead moved meticulously through the medical charts.

"I could scream," Sarah complained to her companions as the MRRU rumbled through streets littered with dropped loot and far worse. "There's nothing here - no similarities or differences that would tell me why the virus progresses through hosts at such dramatically different rates as it does. I've got a wealth of information here but it might as well all be in fucking pennies! I could tell you which victim was impotent and which chain smoked but not _why _they became symptomatic at different times."

Dropping the rest of the folder onto the floor, Sarah flipped between the reports from Cartwright and Tan, comparing them with the case files of each RS patient. Her fingers shuffled through the files with such violence that she nearly tore one sheet in half.

"Look at this," she muttered, not caring if anyone was listening to her anymore or not. "Gorotti was sick for nearly a week before he...he...went all...zombie on everybody but Tanya Larson was symptomatic for only two days before she exhibited the psychosis _and _Doctor Cartwright was infected for less than _twenty-four hours _before she went through the coma stage. If Tan's theory about it affected females differently from males then how the hell does he explain that..."

Her rant ended abruptly as her eye caught on a detail previously overlooked. Sarah held the medical charts of Gorotti, Larson and Cartwright out in a fan. At the top of each file name, height and weight were denoted. She blinked, once, twice, three times as the gears began to clatter away in her head. The virologist read and re-read each line twice.

_A-ha!_

"You done yet?" Hargreaves grumbled from his seat. The sight of him examining his handgun for a fourth time made Sarah want to smack the man.

_He looks like a little boy playing with his dick, _she flashed him a lethal scowl,_ trying to figure out what it's for and why it feels so good when he touches it. _

"Be quiet," she snapped. "I think I've got something. Gorotti was just under three-hundred pounds so he was a beast and a half. Tanya Larson was close to one-fifty but only five feet tall - so a little on the chunky side but Doctor Cartwright...she was just a wisp of a thing, five-seven and only one hundred pounds. "

_"_So what?" Tommy asked. "You're babbling again."

"_So," _Sarah said, flipping to the other files now, not deeming the paparazzo worthy of a glare, "Doctor Tan thought there was a genetic factor linked to the disease. He pointed out that the virus affects women differently from men, that the pace of its progression was accelerated in female hosts but he never bothered to mention that RS was still affecting some women different from _other _women."

"You think that has something to do with how much they weigh?" Hargreaves sounded skeptical. "I'm no doc, doc but what does any of that have to do with genetics?"

"I'm not talking about genetics," Sarah replied, comparing the charts of Bryce Rosh and Rick Larson together. "I'm talking about metabolism."

"Come again?" Chan asked, fiddling with his camera strap.

"Everything you put into your bodies needs to be metabolized. It needs to get processed," Homer answered from the driver's seat, seeming to catch on to his partner's thinking. "Sometimes viruses work the same way. The faster your metabolism, the faster the virus goes to work."

"Women typically have quicker metabolisms than men," Sarah continued, "that's why we're generally more attractive and radiant than the male half of the species. That's not a universal fact but if Tan was only looking at the bigger picture I can see how he might have assumed that the difference lay purely in our genes."

"You really think that's what happened?" Hargreaves asked, holstering his weapon.

"It would sure as hell explain all the discrepancies I'm seeing here in onset times and the progression of symptoms. For example," she began, holding up a pair of charts, "Bryce Rosh had nearly eighty pounds on Rick Larson and was only suffering from an outbreak of hives when Rick was already running a fever and going through waves of nausea. More weight could equal a slower metabolic rate which would explain the slower manifestation of symptoms."

Though it was only a theory - and a rather thin one at that, no pun intended - but Sarah could already feel her mind running away with the idea. She had never been able to get a grasp on how the pieces fit together in the puzzle that was the Raccoon virus...until now.Her heart fluttered between her ribs as the tiniest flame of hope began to burn.

_I can't believe I never saw this before, _Sarah's eyes darted across the lines of each medical file, looking for any other factor's in the victims' histories that could have influenced their metabolic rates. _I never would have even thought of it if I hadn't flown off the handle like that and started comparing _weight classes _for God's sake. I guess the devil really is in the details. _

_"_You're theory has a few holes, Sarah," Homer commented, swerving left and right abruptly as heavy _thumps _sounded on all side of the MRRU. Sarah didn't bother to look out the window, knew the noise came from the infected that had stumbled into the middle of the road pounding at the CDC vehicle as it sped past. She suppressed a shudder as the creatures banged against the reinforced steel walls, imaging pale, peeling hands reaching out in a vain effort to halt their momentum and see what tasty treasures lay inside the metal giant. "For one thing, metabolism can be a genetic factor - that's why there's often such a large divide between the metabolic rates of males and females. Doctor Tan might not have been too far off after all."

"You're splitting hairs now," Sarah said, her brows pinching together. _For someone who's supposed to be retired you're still always trying to teach. _"Your _genes _don't influence how quickly the virus has its way with you,your _metabolism _does. At least, I think it does. I never said it was written in stone but it's more than we've had to go on for nearly two weeks."

"Wait a sec," Hargreaves said, raising a hand to draw the young virologist's attention. "You said the disease should effect skinny people faster, right? Because they have quicker metabolisms? Well, that might explain Doc Breese changing in just a couple minutes after he took a face full of puke but what about Muller? He was built like a brick house and he turned just as fast after he got bit."

Sarah stared at the security guard for a moment, chewing her bottom lip before an idea occurred to her. "Your friend, Muller, how badly was he hurt?"

"Thought he was dead at first," Hargreaves grunted, dropping his gaze to his bootlaces. "Breese ripped his throat out as far as I could see. Poor son of a bitch should have bled to death in a few seconds." He let out a short sigh. "Too bad he wasn't that lucky."

"I think I might have an answer to that as well. Just because metabolism is _a _factor, doesn't mean it's the _only _factor. A virus is still a virus so even while your body is trying to metabolize it, you're immune system has recognized it as a foreign invader and is busy trying to fight it off - hence the high fever, nausea, etcetera.

"The first patients we saw - those who hadn't been infected by others - always managed to last a day or two, probably depending on their individual metabolisms, before slipping into a coma and waking up a few hours later looking for someone to snack on. On the other hand people who _had _been infected by contact with a carrier never lasted more than twenty-four hours before going comatose. We had never seen a case where a host was infected just before or after death though."

"What's your point?" Hargreaves asked with a quirked eyebrow.

"My point is that the human body is basically an organic computer right? Think of the immune system like the body's anti-virus software. Turn off the power - stop the heart - and the systems start to shut down. We don't know much about RS but we do know it's one of the most virulent pathogens on _Earth _so put it up against an immune system that's been compromised by a massive power failure like, you know, _death_ and it's going to be allowed to do its job a hell of a lot faster. We'd be talking about a transformation that usually takes hours taking minutes - or less."

Hargreaves was silent a moment before he fixed Sarah with a grim expression. "Now you're really scaring me, doc."

"Why the difference in times between people who had been bitten and those that hadn't though?" Tommy asked from his roost near one of the side windows. The freelancer had his camera pressed to the glance, his finger hammering the shutter. Sarah didn't even want to know what sight of horror the photographer had captured in his viewfinder.

_Documenting the nightmare, huh, Tommy? You're even more of a leech than I first thought. _

"The mouth is filled with bacteria for breaking down food," Homer offered, "pour that into an open wound that's already infected with a virus like RS and you're asking for trouble. Maybe the bacteria and the virus culture compliment one another somehow, help speed the work the disease needs to do before it can attack the host's brain. That was the working theory most of us had, Sarah felt differently though."

Harold and Tommy fixed the researcher with intrigued glances, Tommy even going so far as to lower his camera. Brushing hair out of her eyes, Sarah nodded.

"My idea was a little more...radical," she admitted.

"To say the very least," Homer replied.

"I got the idea the first time I saw the test results for when we tried to kill it with various antibiotic cultures," she began. "The virus didn't simply neutralize or eradicate the compounds we pitted against it - it assimilated them. The little bastard seemed to realize it was under attack, figured out what it was then _adapted _itself so that it was able to absorb a formerly harmful influence."

"Woah, woah," Tommy chuckled nervously. "Are you trying to tell me this thing is _smart_? It can learn? You really are crazy if you expect me to believe that."

"You're right," Sarah fired back without missing a step. "What was I thinking?" She slapped herself dramatically across the forehead as if leveled by a sudden revelation. "Of course the two-bit, dumpster-diving paparazzi wanna-be knows more about infectious diseases than the _lead CDC appointed researcher with a major in virology! _How could I be so stupid?"

Chan stared at the woman for a moment with his mouth gaping. Finally he put his lips together and kept them that way, contenting himself with playing with his camera lens. Scoffing briefly, Sarah went on.

"_Yes, _I think it's learning or at least has the capacity to learn. That's why I believe it began as an airborne virus but was unable to survive in that form long enough to wreak any true havoc - it's why we saw so few cases initially that didn't involve carrier-to-carrier contact as the means of infection.

I think that once it found hosts it was able to bond too then it changed itself - the same way it does when attacked with drugs - and became even more virulent, able to spread much more quickly through physical transfer. That's why it gears itself to taking over its victim's brains. Once it's in there it floods the system with hormones, making the infected more aggressive and violent until finally the brain is overloaded and short-circuits leaving only the most basic instincts still intact."

"Like what?" Hargreaves wondered aloud.

"The need to feed would probably be the best example."

"Oh. Right."

"A microscopic entity that binds itself to a host and uses the faculties of that host to spread sounds a lot like a parasite to me, Sarah," Homer commented, jerking the MRRU suddenly to the left before shifting back into the right lane. "Problem is, parasites don't start out as airborne viral strains. That's why you had some trouble giving that theory wings."

"It's more than any of you were able to come up with," Sarah glared daggers into the back of Homer's balding head. "Maybe you should try coming up with a solution for once instead of looking for more problems, Homes."

"Still doesn't explain where the sucker came from," Hargreaves muttered. "Why here and nowhere else? What makes Raccoon City so special?"

"The first five reported cases were all linked to one another." Sarah said. "Four of the five where men who worked on the same maintenance detail for the city's sewer system and the fifth was the wife of one of the workers. That can't just be a simple coincidence."

"So, it started in the sewers?" Tommy barked a laugh that grated on Sarah's nerves worse than fingernails on a chalkboard ever could have. "What? Someone flushed a biological weapon down the toilet and those sorry fuckers just happened to be down there at the time?"

"No, that's not what I'm saying...I'd expect a piece of vermin like you to be more familiar with the inner workings of a sewer too," Sarah hissed. "I don't know _how _this virus originated - God only knows what kinds of diseases you can contract wandering around down there. RS could have began as some as of yet undiscovered spore on a wall, who knows.

"All I'm saying is that those five men were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Whatever they _did_ come down with is so small that you need a microscope to see it but, know this buddy, it's a hell of a lot more clever than either you or me."

Sarah ran the names of the infected quintet through her mind: _Vincenzo Gorotti, Bryce Rosh, Rick Larson, Todd Mickelson, Brenden Gordon. _The name's of the men - either dead by now or worse - became a mantra, droning on in the background of her thoughts like a recorder stuck on repeat. Briefly, she wondered what they would have thought if they could have realized that their illness' would provide the spark for one of the most devastating outbreaks in American history.

_Not that there'd be a whole slew of reactions to learning that you're just the tip to an iceberg of a lethal, never seen before epidemic, _Sarah decided leafing through the pilfered files for any further insights. _I'm pretty sure you either just keep staring off into space or start looking around for the tallest building you can fling yourself off of._

"Hey!" Homer yelled into the back. "I think we're here!"

Setting aside Burke's file folder, Sarah moved from her seat towards the front cab of the MRRU where she peered over her partner's shoulder. Several feet in front of the vehicle's headlights, the blood-stained, body-clogged asphalt came to an abrupt end. Police cruisers, damp sandbags and concrete blockades sealed off the path ahead. Squinting through the drizzle and fog, Sarah was able to make out figures moving behind the barricades. Figures that did not shamble or stagger haphazardly left an right but moved into positions along the barrier with a deliberate, calculated focus.

"Thank God," she whispered. "This must be the southern blockade."

With the hospital overrun and the streets counting down their self-destruct sequence, Sarah had told Homer to make for the closest R.P.D. roadblock. Figuring that the best place to be in a city overflowing with maniacs was surrounded by the men and women with the most guns, it had seemed like a perfect plan - after all there were more police blockades than police stations in Raccoon City these days. Encircled by the boys and girls in blue, Sarah could gather her thoughts and put together as coherent a situation report as possible for Barnes back at HQ. If the arrogant little prick of a director was smart he would listen to everything she had to tell him and then send in a full hot suite to begin screening and evacuating survivors. The military would probably be needed as well to provide security for the CDC team or assist with the screening process itself.

_Let's not forget the clean-up either. Someone's going to need to take care of the infected still within the city limits...and then there's the possibility that those things might have gotten through the police's shield. _ That thought had a finger of dread tickling the inside of Doctor Waxer's belly. _Wouldn't that be fun? Dozens of those...those creatures escaping into the surrounding areas where nobody has any idea of how to treat or contain RS. Granted, it's not like we did a bang up job in either area. _

Nothing irked Sarah more than failure. If she scored poorly on a test, she would feel sick to her stomach for days. If one of her experiments produced unexpected results, it was all she could do to keep from tearing her hair out. Yet her failure here in Raccoon had left her simply numb, so great and overwhelming was its extent.

Sarah Waxer, virologist, biologist and hot shot rookie brainiac had been sent in to Raccoon City to solve a puzzle only to discover that she lacked the tools to fit any of the pieces together in time. Her goal had been to manufacture an anti-virus or at least develop a proper containment scheme. She had been unsuccessful in both endeavors - now the only cure was a bullet through the skull and the city's quarantine was fast eroding as the officers manning the barriers succumbed to the disease themselves.

_Not exactly a great first impression to leave with the CDC brass, _Sarah thought as Homer drew closer to the blockade, _and the people fortunate enough to make it out of this horror show will definitely have a good chuckle at the lashing I'll take from the press when I get back home for debriefing but fuck them all. I didn't start this mess but I was supposed to clean it up and boy, oh boy, did I ever screw the pooch there. Well, the hell with it, I'll take my lumps, I'll take the heat but first I'm going to have to live long enough to see that day so priority number one is getting our asses out of here. _

"They'll take us in right?" Tommy asked, pushing up uncomfortably close to her.

"Of course they will," Sarah scoffed. "They're cops, right? Serve and protect. That's what they're paid to do so stop worrying -"

Flashes of gunfire stood out against the gray day like bursts of silvery light. Sarah ducked and cringed as she heard the bullets whiz and crack past the windows of the MRRU. Tires squealed and the van fishtailed wildly left and right as Homer took both feet off the gas to slam down on the brakes.

"What the hell was that about?" Tommy whined from where he lay on the floor with both hands clamped over his head. "Are they out of their fucking minds?"

"Warning shots," Hargreaves replied grimly. "At least, I hope those were only meant to be warning shots. I guess we'll find out in a minute anyway." Sarah noticed the security guard had his pistol out again but the grip he held on it now was no longer nervous and idle.

Slowly, Sarah found the courage to raise her head above the dashboard. Five men were racing towards them from the ramshackle barricade. Each was draped in heavy black body armor and cradled a wicked looking submachine gun in his gloved hands. With weapons raised, the five skid to an unexpected halt about ten feet from where the MRRU had come to rest at a nearly ninety-degree angle, arranging themselves in a staggered line with one of their number standing prominently at the front. Through the vehicles reinforced glass windows, Sarah was just able to make out the lead man's shouting.

"Turn around now!" He roared, the MRRU's thick windows and walls doing nothing to disguise the barely restrained madness in his voice. "No one is permitted outside of the city! Turn around _now, goddamn it!" _

"Some hospitality," Hargreaves grumbled.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Sarah demanded of her partner as he reached for the gear shift with one hand while holding the other high and open in a placating gesture to the officers outside.

"Following orders." He said nonchalantly, sliding the stick into reverse.

"Whose orders?"

"The ones given to me by the mob of men sticking guns in our faces." He paused to give the younger woman a sharp glare. "You might have been in charge of this case, Sarah, but as far as I'm concerned this is a democracy now. _I'm _not about to get shot just so we can hold to _your _plan. We're going to have to find another spot to hold up and call the CDC from."

"You're such an old man, Homer," Sarah sighed and unclipped her ID badge from her breast pocket. Without another look at her partner she stepped over Tommy Chan, threw the side door open and hopped out into the rain.

"Sarah -!" Homer cried but the rest was cut off as she slammed the door with a satisfying _crunch. _

Straightening her hair and smoothing her lab coat as best she could, Sarah moved around the front of the van with her hands held high and palm facing outwards. Dangling between her fingers was the laminated piece of plastic that named her as a special consultant from the Center For Disease Control, she hoped that would be enough to keep the jittery cops from plugging her when she came into view. Though she told herself this was nothing compared to what she had already been through today, Sarah was powerless to stop a tremor from crawling up her spine at the sight of so many firearms pointed her way.

_Son of a bitch, _she shivered as the officers leveled their weapons with her frame and tried to convince herself that it was only a chill from the rain. _They could shred me before I had a chance to even blink. _

"Don't shoot!" She yelled, doing her best to sound rational and in control. "My name is Sarah Waxer! I'm a doctor with the CDC. I was sent in to assist with the Raccoon Syndrome outbreak. Here's my ID if you don't believe me."

"I don't give a shit who you are," the apparent commander bellowed. "You could be the First Lady for all it matters to me. _No one _is leaving the city."

_Well, at least we're off to a good start. Why was I worried?_

"I understand that, officer." Sarah answered evenly, her upraised arms beginning to ache. "I'm not asking you to let us out. There are others with me - another doctor and two survivors from Saint Jude's hospital - I just need a safe place to contact my headquarters from. I need to get in touch with my director. He'll be able to send in more help once he receives my report - more doctors, more security, maybe even evac transport for any healthy survivors."

"You want us to take you in then?" The man sounded incredulous, his black balaclava hiding all but a pair of icy, wild blue eyes. "I'm not running a refugee shelter here, lady. Get lost and get lost fast."

"Please, there's only four of us. We have medical supplies and -"

"Yeah, there's only four of you now but if I take you in then what? Then maybe four more show up and I have to take them in too...and then four more and then ten more and then twenty more. If you're looking for shelter then go to fucking Precinct 24. The mayor designated that as the emergency relief center in case something like this happened. There's nothing I can do for you."

"We don't have time for that!" Sarah cried, frustrated and helpless she could feel the sting of unwanted tears burning in the back of her throat. "We're almost out of gas as it is...and driving through the streets is like navigating a death maze. Please, I'm begging you here, I only need an hour or two."

"How many times do I have to tell you?" The officer spat, his tone - like his aim - unwavering. "I'm not taking anybody in. You could all be infected with this shit as far as I know."

"None of us are infected!" Sarah screeched and was grateful for the rain in her face. It hid the water leaking from her eyes. "I know more about the virus than anyone right now so, please, you _have _to trust me. _No one_ with me has been bitten or scratched."

For less than a moment, something softened in the man's eyes and Sarah prayed that he was about to change his mind about them but then that steel curtain came crashing down over his gaze again and her heart sank. Suspicion was a useful tool to a police officer, after all, and this one seemed loathe to part with it. It had kept him alive for too long.

"So what?" He countered. "I've heard of people just coming down with it out of the blue. Hell, I knew guys in the department that got it that way."

"That was before!" Sarah roared, throwing her arms down in disgusted aggravation. "That was when it was still airborne! It's not anymore. I _swear! _Please, we don't have anywhere left to go."

"Sergeant Holt!" One of the other SWAT troopers called a sudden warning and the sergeant's gaze shifted to something behind Sarah.

"Get back!" He shouted abruptly, shifting into a defensive stance. "Tell them all to get back now!"

Glancing over her shoulder, Sarah was perturbed to see the cause of the officer's panic walking uncertainly towards them. Homer waddled slowly, hands held halfway to his shoulders, fingers trembling violently. He was tailed closely by Tommy Chan and Hargreaves, the wannabe photojournalist pushed forward eagerly, clicking away with his camera while the man beside him moved with the calculated grace of a trained hunter. The contrast between the pair was so stark Sarah could have laughed had she been anywhere else.

"What the hell do you all think you're doing?" Sarah demanded, helpless anger turning to powerful irritation at the sight of the three men. "I didn't ask you to come with me."

"You didn't tell us to stay put either," Hargreaves told her, his handgun held loosely in his right hand as he studied the SWAT team ahead, his eyes seeming to judge and weigh each man for strengths and weaknesses.

_So help me God, if he tries something here. _Sarah scowled openly at the security guard, trying to will him telepathically to put his damn gun away already. There were a plethora of ways to get killed in Raccoon City without having to add being gunned down by the police to the list. _If you get us killed here, I'll rip your balls off. That's a promise. _

"Drop that weapon!" Holt roared at the Umbrella guard, drawing a bead on the other man's face. "Put it down or I'll give you an extra eye right between the other two."

Hargreaves seemed to consider the other man's proposition for a moment. Sarah was screaming at the man in her head, threatening death and dismemberment at her hands, shrieking at the fool to stop thinking with his _dick _already and show some brains. He must have heard her because, after another second's consideration he slid the pistol back into its holster at his hip.

"All of you, get out of here now." Holt growled.

"Sergeant, we don't have anywhere else to go," Sarah hated to plead more than she hated to cry, for both brought with them that horribly helpless sensation of drowning. "I'm a doctor with the _CDC, _you need to believe me when I tell you that no one here is infected -"

"Oh, I _need _to believe that do I?" Holt fired back, thrusting the barrel of his weapon towards Sarah's tightly pursed lips. "Because I've never been lied to before, huh? If you think I'm going to take your word on _anything _then you must believe I was born yesterday too, lady. Don't you think I've _seen _a thing or two in this hellhole?"

"Hey! Hey!" One of the men behind the SWAT commander shouted. "Put that fucking camera away!"

Startled by the man's seemingly bottomless capacity for stupid behavior, Sarah turned to find Tommy snapping pictures of the grisly scene behind the small troop of police officers. A breach had been attempted at the barricade and many of the participants had proven unsuccessful. Bodies riddled with gunshot and other, cruder wounds formed a gruesome carpet across the first line of sandbags. Even now police officers trudged through the rain, dragging away the dead. There was a heavy chorus of groans and Sarah watched as a half dozen men pushed a bloodstained old Chevy into a ditch by the side of the road. The wreck had so many holes in its frame it could have doubled as a metallic piece of Swiss.

_So much for ramming our way through, _Sarah thought, defeat and exhaustion hanging heavy on her shoulders as, with a final grunt and sigh, the officers managed to roll the clunking blue beast into the crevasse.

"Jesus, Tommy!" She snapped. "Have some respect would you? Put that thing down already, you freaking moron!"

"What?" The reporter asked, lowering his camera but not possessing enough integrity to look ashamed. "It's in plain sight. There's no law that says I can't take a picture of something that's just sitting right out in the open."

"We're still picking some of our friends out of that pile of fucking animals," Holt snarled, "so if _I _say you can't take pictures of it then you can't. Now, I'm done talking with you - _all _of you - I'm not taking any of you in. Save your own asses - no one's helping us save ours. Get lost or get shot. Make your choice fast though because when I'm wet I get cranky and when I get cranky I run out of patience _real _fast."

Mouth gaping, tears and rain touching her tongue with a salty caress, Sarah stifled the impulse to protest one last time. There was something in Sergeant Holt's eyes, something cold and so dangerously close to insanity that it erased any doubts she might have harbored about the seriousness of his threat. Whatever the man had seen, whatever he had been forced to do, it had left him with nothing more than a thread of sensibility to cling to. Horrors witnessed and performed had wiped the sergeant clean of a sense of duty, absolved him of his oath to protect and serve.

Sarah had visited regions of the world where disease ran rampant and the threat of horrific death lay just around the corner. She well knew the impact such living conditions took on their inhabitants. Fear often broke people long before the illness' that terrified them had any chance too. Some were reduced to catatonic, blubbering wrecks, given over wholly to their despair while others, who had hedged their bets and determined that it was better to get it over and done with sooner and by their own volition rather than later when the choice was taken from them, killed themselves. Then there were the few who, like Sergeant Holt, found themselves teetering on the brink of a savage madness, a descent into the deepest darkness where only the basest of instincts existed - _survival. _

Murder, theft, anarchy, destruction - all were just tools of survival. When presented with dire circumstances mankind would do whatever it took to survive and the cost could be lamented later, as a luxury of the living. As the epidemic swallowed Raccoon City whole and the citizens took to tearing apart the fabric of their society, Sarah had not been surprised in the least. It was only human nature after all.

She could read the war of emotions raging inside the officers skull with a single, sweeping gaze. He held his shoulders forward and tight against the stock of the submachine gun. His finger, barely touching the trigger of his weapon, sat still as a hunting hawking upon a branch. Lips, cracked and rough, were held pursed together in a thin colorless line and though water dripped from the brim of his helmet down into his eyes, Holt did not blink once.

Rigid as a bar of iron, was Holt, but just as brittle. Push too hard, bend too far and even iron would shatter as easily as glass. So too would a man's sanity. One more word, Sarah realized, and Sergeant Holt would take the plunge into the black waters of self-preservation. One more word from any of them and Holt would do the rest of his talking with the barrel of his weapon. Survivors could questions the rationality of their actions later; corpses could not.

"We're going," Sarah told the man and began to back away, signaling at her pathetic looking troop to do the same. Only when her sodden, defeated bunch had slunk back into the MRRU with their damp tails tucked firmly between their legs did Holt lower his weapon and order his men back to the barricade.

"That went well," Tommy commented from over Sarah's shoulder as she settled into the passenger seat.

"Keep talking asshole," she snapped. "I swear Tommy, I'm _this _close to tearing off your balls for a hood ornament." She held her thumb and forefinger less than an inch apart and squinted through the space in between. "You're the dipshit who decided it'd be a good idea to start taking pictures of a mound of dead bodies when the fucking cops were sticking _guns _in our faces!"

"Excuse me for trying to do something productive," Tommy snorted slipping back down onto one of the benches. "When we get out of here people are going to want to know what happened here and _no one _is going to believe shit like this went down without proof." He held up his camera. "I'll be the one with that proof."

"Make sure you get a t-shirt deal too then," Hargreaves grumbled. "You could print '_I went to Raccoon City and all I got was eaten alive,' _on them. Humor like that's got to be worth at least ten bucks a pop right? Maybe more if you can get a good illustrator to draw a bloody hand -"

"If you two wouldn't mind shutting up for a moment but I think we have a bigger problem, now?" Homer admonished the pair in the back who flashed him sullen looks but managed to find the strength of character to keep their traps shut which did wonders for the pounding in Sarah's head. "Namely, where the hell do we go? If you're thinking of taking Holt's advice and heading for the police station I should probably tell you now that this lumbering hulk does _not _have enough gas to make it even half that distance."

"I'm a step ahead of you as always, Homes," Sarah said, doing her best to sound self-assure even as she scrubbed the last few galling tears from her eyes. "This baby can withstand anything short of a direct rocket strike so we're just going to have to find a place to lay low for a bit."

"Yeah? Then what?"

"I call Barnes and tell him to send in a full hot suite with military compliment. I'm going to tell him that he needs to kick his ass into fifth gear on this one. Sending in two analysts was a half assed attempt at getting this situation under control. He underestimated how bad things would get over here and how fast they would get that way. So he's going to have to make it up _big time." _

"Underestimated the situation or was trying to downplay it?" Homer asked. "Two CDC researchers is enough for the general public to feel like something's being done about the problem but not enough to cause them any panic about what's happening in their own backyard."

"I didn't realize you could be so political, Homes."

"Stick around, I'm full of surprises."

Hearing those words made her grin, as it was the old Homer, safe, reliable, and wise shining through again. Those words, so quick and with just a miniscule quirk of sarcasm attached did not belong to Homer the Teacher, who always second guessed her or Homer the Old Maid, who knew how to worry better than he knew how to walk. Just plain old Homer Shields, partner and friend.

_Stick around, I'm full of surprises. _

Then Sarah thought of Homer back at Saint Jude's just before their desperate flight from the hospital. The memory seemed so strange now it was nearly alien. His face normally timid and smooth had seemed monstrous, his chubby features contorted in a grimace of enraged frustration, his eyes narrowed to tiny, sharp points. What she remembered most vividly though was his finger: thrust at her chest, the nail a dagger point seeking her heart.

_ "You don't know!" _Homer, who never raised his voice to her - to anyone! - had bellowed. His statement had been a roaring admonition, a professor striking a dense pupil with a yardstick to drive home their idiocy._"It's just a theory, Sarah. You can't be sure because you're still too goddamn gr..." _In the end, her friend had lacked the stomach to finish his verbal thrashing but she had gotten the point. The word he had been unable to finish still stuck in her mouth and it tasted so bitter she thought she could gag on it.

_Green. I'm still too green. That's what he meant, what he wanted to say. _

When Sarah had graduated from university when most others were still finishing off their applications, Homer had scooped her up in his arms and swung her around as if she were his own daughter, laughing as she squealed. He had thrown her in a headlock and mussed up her hair when she had shown him her acceptance letter from Director Barnes, offering her a research position with the CDC, then chuckled when she twisted his arm back behind his back in retribution and demanded that he say "Uncle". When her new found colleagues rejected her ideas out of hand, deeming her nothing more than an up-jumped child prodigy looking to get her name in a few medical journals, Homer had been the voice in her corner, speaking up and lending momentum to her theories when she was all but ready to chuck in the towel.

_"It's just a theory, Sarah." Just another worthless idea from someone way out of their league. Something a little girl would come up with. _Sarah's grin faded as she regarded the man in the seat next to her. _My folks never believed in me, Barnes never believed in me...not really, anyway. Hell, half the time I think _I _never believed in me either. I guess you're just like everyone else then, Homes. I guess you're not different like I thought you were. _

_Of course you're not. That was just another theory of mine. Just another worthless idea. Something a little girl would come up with. _

"Stick around," Homer had said, "I'm full of surprises."

This morning he had held her when she wept, bitter and broken and out of gas. This afternoon, he had turned on her, just as every other human being in her life had done. It wasn't self-pity to admit this, Sarah decided. It was pattern recognition.

_"Stick around, I'm full of surprises."_

Sarah leaned her head against the glass of the window and shut her eyes. Finding the strength suddenly sapped from her, she slipped away into the desolate reaches of silence.

_No kidding. _

Author's Note: Sorry for the delay. Once again a shorter chapter turned into a, well, not so short chapter. Expect another update within the next week or two. So stay tuned and, as always, please read and review!


	8. Ross' Royal

**Chapter Seven: Ross' Royal **

"Just checking," Sczchinski hollered between lulls in the staccato of gunfire, "but this is bad right?"

Cobb held down the trigger on his M4 and swept the carbine in a slow arc from left to right. Only when the weapon clicked empty did he lift his finger. Blowing out a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding, the marshall watched as five figures staggered out of the horde clogging the alley behind him, their bodies decorated with ragged, scorched holes. Four were rising back to their feet before he could finish inhaling again.

"Yeah, pretty bad." Cobb agreed, reaching into his utility pouch for another clip.

Sticking to the alleys had seemed like the safest course of action to Cobb at the time as he had reasoned that the bulk of the riots and infected would be limited to the main streets themselves where the city's population was at its densest. Unfortunately, the living dead had been thinking one step ahead of him and had arrived in force, coming crashing through a pair of chain-link fences to choke the paths behind and ahead.

_Figures, _Cobb thought as he locked a fresh clip into the breach and fired another burst across the width of the alley to keep the mob of creatures flanking his people at bay. _Outfoxed by an army of brainless zombies. This is not turning out to be my day. _

"Jesus," Gilson's deep voice was strained, pulled tight with a slow burning panic.

He crouched about ten feet from where Danny stood, Sheesh and Tucker on either side, all firing full auto into a group of about forty or so men and women with blood drooling from the corners of their mouthes and bits of loose meat dangling from underneath yellow, chipped fingernails. It was impossible for the men to miss even if the alley had not been so narrow but somehow, impossibly, the infected pushed forward never seeming to incur a permanent loss.

"These fuckers won't die," Sheesh complained, pumping three rounds into the torso of a man wearing the tattered, bloodstained remains of a bus driver's uniform. A name tag only partially obscured by some unidentifiable dark smear bore the name _Earl _and if Earl experienced any discomfort as the hot metal pierced his sternum he gave no sign. "Damn it! Why won't they die?"

_Because they're already dead_, Cobb thought before Detective Clarke brushed past, the barrel of his Glock trailing smoke. Without a word, a breath or the blink of an eye, Marshall raised his pistol and, at point blank range, put a bullet through Earl's forehead. Oily blood leaking slowly from the wound, Earl emitted a tiny sigh and pitched face first to the ground. An inky pool began to form around his pale, bald skull.

"I told you," Clarke muttered, popping two more heads before he was forced to reload. "If you want them to stay down shoot them in the head."

"I hope you guys have a lot of bullets then!" The shout came from behind Cobb, where Drake squatted with his hands clamped firmly around his ears, a pained grimace painted onto his features from the constant clatter of fire. At the murderer's back, Michelle ensured his good behavior with a hand wrapped twice around the material of his collar. Her white knuckles stood out in stark contrast against the orange of Drake's jumpsuit and the deputy's wide eyes seemed to scream as she surveyed the number of infected to the fore and aft of the alleyway.

"Son of a bitch has a point," Mick Murphy said, flashing Cobb a quick glance. The detective's jaw was tight, beads of sweat running in haphazard patterns through the wrinkles in his leathery face. Blood sprayed the right-hand wall as a heavy .44 round split open the face of a grey-skinned man in a dirty white jacket. "We need to get out of this alley _now _or we're all going to be chow for these fucking things."

When he had made the decision to transfer from the NYPD to join up with the U.S. Marshal service, Danny had been aware of just how dangerous it was to make that choice. Being a cop was a far cry from being an accountant but investigating murders was a great deal less hazardous than hunting down the actual killers. Every day with the marshals meant confronting another violent gangster or freelance killer like Drake Lincoln, men who valued nothing in their own lives let alone those of others. Every day with the marshals could mean an abrupt end to his life, a bullet in the head or back but never - _never -_ had Danny thought he would be required to add being cannibalized by ravenous zombies to the list of risks that went along with his job.

_Live and learn, Danny Boy._

If those were two things Cobb planned on doing then the first thing he needed was an exit from this narrow corridor that was thick with the sickly smell of damp, rotting skin and the acrid sting of gunpowder. Squinting through the drizzle, blocking out the low thunder of Murphy's magnum beside his head as it drowned out the chatter of the automatics, Cobb noticed that exits were in seriously short supply.

Zombies congested the two most obvious escape routes, dead eyes staring without seeing as ashen, unfeeling fingers groped through empty air for their next meal. For now, the marshals were able to keep the creatures at a respectable distance but Danny knew it wouldn't be long until one of the things managed to break through and that would start a domino effect that would see them all torn to pieces. Directly ahead was a wall of sheer brick that would have been too high to climb even with the dumpster pushed up against it but there, two feet ahead of Sczchinski, stood a pair of doors set into the far wall, both made of plain brown steel. One had been secured with a padlock but the other bore only a sticker with the word _Service._

"Sheesh!" Cobb yelled, quickly turning to suppress the infected gaining on their heels with a short, controlled burst that cut down four of the pathetic, wailing ghouls. "Try that door!"

"Cover me!" Marty slung his M4 around his neck and darted towards the simple entranceway, Gilson and Tucker holding the mob back with an endless hammering of lead. Gripping the knob, Sheesh threw his shoulder into the door twice but it refused to budge. "It's locked!" He cried, reaching for his weapon again, the carbine shaking slightly as he raised it to his shoulder and began to fire from what little shelter the doorway provided.

"Tucker, unlock it!"

Beside Cobb, Murphy swore and snapped his revolver open. Metal shells tumbled to the ground, hissing and steaming in the rain. Reaching into his jacket pocket for a speed loader, the detective never even saw the fat man in a gore-streaked sweatsuit break from the crowd and charge towards him.

"Mick!" Danny roared, the detective's head coming up just in time to watch as Cobb put a three-round burst through the obese monster's temple. Crimson fluid and grey matter spattered the brick and Murphy jumped back with a curse as the body slumped into a puddle at his feet. Trembling with more rage than fright, Danny was sure, Mick closed the chamber of his Colt and began to fire. Switching to single-fire, Cobb began to target eyes, noses and foreheads while dreading the sound of an empty _click _as he yanked the trigger back each time.

Built like a tank on two legs, Godwin's shoulder thundered against the service door with the crash of a sledgehammer striking an anvil. Every tear of gunfire, every chorus of pitiable moans was punctuated by the sharp cry of complaining steel. Cobb could hear the door shudder, shake and shriek as Godwin's grunts became more rapid and frustrated as the stubborn bolt held its ground with heroic zeal. Finally, just when his heart was thinking about bursting and saving the zombies anymore trouble, Cobb heard the snap of a breaking lock and the squeal of bending hinges.

"Open!" Tucker cried and it had to be the sweetest word ever to reach Cobb's ears.

"_Go! Go!_" He cried, squeezing off his last two rounds before picking a target and swore as they slapped wetly, uselessly, into the chest of a woman in a torn purple t-shirt. Murphy dropped her with a single shot as Danny fumbled for a fresh clip. "Everyone get the hell out of here, now!"

Turning his back on the mob of blind, bloody, _hungry _creatures Cobb caught hold of Mick's sleeve and shoved the old gumshoe ahead of him. Screaming something inaudible in Drake's ear, Michelle had the cringing felon on his feet in a second and was shoving him unceremoniously through the doorway, her M4 propped over his shoulder in case the path needed to be cleared. Pausing in the doorframe, Clarke supported his gun hand at the wrist and opened up on the horde pursuing his partner and the marshal commander. When Mick stumbled within arm's reach, Clarke grabbed the other detective's wrist and yanked him through.

"Go, goddamnit!" Cobb screamed as Sczchinski, Gilson and Tucker fanned out, forming a loose semi-circle around their commander. The whine of so many automatics firing at once made Danny's head swim. "Get out of here!"

Spinning to face the direction he had come from, Cobb leveled his M4 and held the trigger down until his finger ached. Not caring what he hit or whether it stayed down, simply making a bid to buy time and space, Danny swept the width of the alley. Bullets cut through flesh, crunched through bone, ricocheted off brick to the music of careless destruction. A half dozen of the creatures stumbled out of file, only to pull their ruined carcasses across the damp pavement, streaking trails of blood and entrails across the ground. Even more simply took the hits and kept coming as unflappable and inexorable as if they were fueled, driven, by some unholy machinery.

_My god. What _are _these things? _

"Boss!"

Cobb turned, saw Gilson waving to him frantically from the building's entrance way. Snapped from his horrified musing, Cobb tore towards his deputy, darting past just as the fingertips of the diseased creatures began to swipe at his back. A tide of moaning rose from outside and the marshal commander swore they sounded disappointed.

_Almost had me there. Jesus. They almost had me. _

Shivering and queasy with disgust, Cobb watched as, grunting and groaning, Gilson and Tucker strained to slam the warped door shut again. It took the pair of mammoth men only a minute to push the bent slab of metal back into its frame but even they were forced to throw their full weight behind it to keep it closed against the press of bodies from the outside. Throwing his back against the bucking door, Cobb signaled to Sheesh.

"Finding something to brace this fucker with!"

"Like what?"

"Like something heavy," Cobb rolled his eyes. "Jesus Christ, Sheesh! Like _anything!" _

Sheesh stood there gaping another moment then blinked and slapped Clarke on the shoulder. "You're with me," he informed the panting detective. "You too, Gramps," he added for Mick's benefit.

Though both men were wiping sweat from their eyes and struggling to find their breath, neither voiced a complaint as they ran after Marty, following him down a narrow hallway to the left. Digging his heels in, gritting his teeth, Cobb growled as he felt the door crack open an inch behind him. Godwin threw his hip into it and the door slammed shut with a violent crash.

No longer needing to glance over his shoulder every five seconds, Danny noticed their new surroundings for the first time. His group had just kicked its way into the back room of one of the city's watering holes. Tall shelves filled the room, stocked with kegs of beer and boxes of hard liquor. Crates of empty bottles in all shapes and sizes had been stacked against the wall just to the right of the doorway.

A short staircase lay across the room, set into the far wall, where Drake now sat grimacing as he dug his fingers in his ears and shook his head. The stairs led up to a plain wooden door with a gold plaque that read: _To Main Hall. _Beneath the engraving was the picture of a fat man draped in a red robe that accented an equally rosy face and bejeweled crown. The chubby king gripped an overflowing mug of beer in either hand, clumsily slopping the froth over the rim of the glass as he appeared to be dancing. Beneath the drunken monarch the words _Ross' Royal Pub _were written in flowing gold script.

"If Sheesh doesn't get his ass back here in three seconds I'm going to break him into so many pieces even the doctors won't know what fits where anymore." Gilson groaned, his face pinched as he struggled to hold the door closed against the pale, dead hands of the creatures on the other side.

"Save some for me," Godwin replied, sweat dripping off the tip of his nose.

"Move your asses!" Sheesh cried, apparently just in time to avoid being turned into a human jigsaw puzzle. He waved the trio away from the door as he, Clarke and Murphy all returned from what had to be the bar's receiving area. Each man lugged a heavy wooden skid behind him.

Together the three stacked the pallets beneath the handle of the entrance then dashed away into the back to find more materials for the barricade. Within moments and with the help of the others there was hardly an inch of the frame not covered behind the dusty timbers.

"Son of a bitch!" Sheesh doubled over, hands on knees, sucking in air the way a man dying of thirst would suck down water. "I'm built for speed not endurance," he gasped.

"Maybe that's why you still don't have a girlfriend," Michelle quipped, out of breath herself.

"Yeah! You know what, Michelle? Not only is that absolutely fucking _hilarious_ it's also totally appropriate given our current situation."

"Relax, Marty," Gilson sighed, leaning against one of the shelving units. "I don't know about you but if we're all going to die here I'd rather do it peeing in my pants laughing instead of shitting in them because I'm terrified alright?"

"Sure thing, Gilly," Sheesh snipped back. "I'd hate to infringe on your personal enjoyment."

"Everybody just shut up," Cobb spat. "No one's dying here. Not if I can help it."

"I think I'm deaf!" Drake bellowed, startling everyone. His voice was thick and about three decibels too loud.

"Well, look at it this way," Sheesh said, sitting down next to the hitman who was still scratching at his inner ear. "If that's the worst thing that happens to you today consider yourself lucky."

"_What?"_

Sczchinski studied the look of extreme consternation on the other man's face for a moment, his own expressionless. "Nevermind," he sighed and stalked away scowling.

_No one's dying here_. _Not if I can help it_.

Could he? It took nothing at all to make a promise but keeping one could cost a man everything. Cobb slipped off his cap and ran a hand back through his damp, bushy hair. He was starting to suspect that even drowning men felt more comfortable than he did at the moment. Everything was happening too quickly, without rhyme or reason, assailing him from every angle in a disordered blur of chaotic events. He felt dizzy and half-blind.

"You're getting old, Danny Boy," he muttered to himself as the others continued to bitch and bicker among themselves.

With over a decade of experience in law enforcement, Cobb had thought, arrogantly now it seemed, that he was prepared for anything the Fates could throw his way. The life he led was largely reactionary anyway: if a suspect fled, he gave chase. If a perp struggled, he got a boot up his ass. If someone shot first, he shot back without a second thought. He lived or he died - plain and simple.

_And when you drive straight into the belly of Hell? Then what, Danny Boy? What's the reaction to that? _ Cobb pulled his cap back on and blew out a long breath. _Shit yourself and keep your foot on the gas, that's what Sheesh would say anyway and, right now, I don't seem to have a better suggestion in mind. _

Glancing back over his shoulder, Cobb decided that he better come up with one soon. Muffled seeped through the barricaded door, the hungry cries of the damned. Chipped nails scrapped and pale hands pounded against the metal. Though the noises sounded muted and pathetic, accenting the futility of the creatures efforts, they also served to underline the single-mindedness of the infected and that chilled Danny to the marrow of his bones.

_They'd wait out there all day for us, _Cobb knew, _time doesn't mean anything to them anymore. _

"What are you thinking, boss?" Turning back, Cobb found Michelle looking up at him, apparently bored with watching Gilson and Sheesh trade barbed comments.

"I'm thinking that a pretty big wrench got tossed into my plans," he grumbled. "By now we were supposed to be on a plane back home with Drake bolted firmly to the floor between Gilson and Tucker. Instead we're squatting in the storeroom of some dive trying to figure out our next move before a mob of zombies breaks the door down to have us all for lunch."

"Well, sure, of course it sounds bad when you say it like _that_." The young woman offered her commander a bleak smile.

Cobb knew his deputy was only trying to lighten the mood to prevent the inevitable breakdown that they were certainly all entitled too by now but, still, he found he could not return her paper-thin grin with one of his own. His team was in a situation that was fast becoming deeply, truly and totally screwed - if it wasn't already...and he had promised them all that it would be okay. That he would keep them safe.

_Me and my big mouth. _Danny's ex-wife had once told him that he would have only half as many problems as he did if had only been granted the good fortune to be born mute. _"No one's dying here. Not if I can help it." Yeah right, I've got less than a half a clue about what we're up against. Hell, Drake's probably got a better idea about what's going on in this death-trap than I do. _

"You know what, Gilly," Sheesh was saying, "it's fine. Really. I understand why you say the things you do. All those steroids you shoot into your ass-cheeks are finally starting to dissolve what little brains you had left. You -"

"Shut up!" Clarke hissed suddenly from his position near the staircase. "I hear something." Using one hand to unholster his pistol, the other grabbed Drake by the scruff of the neck and dragged him away from the steps.

Leveling the barrel of his M4 with the doorway ahead, Cobb strained his ears for any trace of what had raised Detective Clarke's hackles. The pace of his heart quickened as the faint noise of shuffling footsteps sounded on the other side of the closed door but he quirked an eyebrow a moment later, thinking he could hear the chatter of inaudible words and the jingle of keys. Somehow, he doubted a pack of mindless cannibals were clever enough to decipher the intricacies of speech or locked doors.

As the door swung in slowly, Cobb could feel the others stiffen next to him, breaths drawn tight, fingers hovering over triggers. Two figures stood in the doorway, the lone, naked lightbulb overhead casting shadows over both. The pair stepped from the darkness and though their skin was pale, their movements uncertain, both were very much alive.

Standing side by side, the man on the right had an easy hundred pounds on his companion and bore a striking resemblance to the blotto king painted on the bar's logo. His bulky frame was wrapped in a greas-stained black apron and a simple white dress shirt rolled up at the sleeves. Cradled in the man's beefy palms were the short black irons of a sawed off double-barrel. The man's red-rimmed eyes wandered between Danny in his marshal's baseball cap and Drake in his unmistakable orange jumpsuit, his weapon hovering somewhere between the group of intruders in front of him and the floor beneath him.

Beside the king's doppelganger, stood a man in a ruffled plaid shirt and blue jeans that seemed to have been manufactured with more sawdust than denim in them. A weathered leather tool-belt encircled the man's waist, its holsters carrying an impressive collection of screwdrivers, hammers and drill bits. Licking his lips, the man glanced nervously between Danny's team and his partner, his hairy fingers flexing around the handle of a rubber mallet.

"You just keep that thing pointed at the ground and we won't have any problems, alright?" Cobb said after a moment of silence that stretched into an eternity.

"What?" The king's double replied, his eyebrows twitching with confusion before sliding down to the shotgun in his hands. "Oh, right. Sorry. Can't be too careful though, right? They were rioting out in the streets a few hours ago and then those...well, I don't know _what _to call those _people_...but they showed up and broke up the party pretty quick. We could hear the screaming, it must have gone on for...what...another hour, Reg?"

"Yeah," the other man answered abruptly, appearing startled that he'd been addressed. "Something like that."

"Right," the king went on, "then I heard all that crashing and banging back here and figured I might have forgotten to lock up after all." He rested the sawed off against one pudgy shoulder. "Didn't mean to scare any of you like that. This old thing's an antique, to be honest with you. Probably blow up in my face if I actually pulled the trigger."

"Don't worry," Godwin said, rubbing his arm, "you remembered to lock up alright."

"U.S. Marshals," Reg squinted, reading the print on the front of Cobb's hat. "Are you guys cops?"

"Something like that," Gilson replied. "They are," he pointed to where Clarke and Murphy stood together, only now putting away their weapons.

"Thank God," both the king's chins quivered as he exhaled a relieved sigh. "It's about time you guys got here." He began to stammer, glancing back over his shoulder into the bar. "There's more of us. I-I've got two more customers...t-two more people in there...a-aside from Reggie and me, I mean.

"Oh, shit! I forgot. My name's Bert. Bert Ross and that's Reggie Brewer. He's uh, one of my regulars but a friend too, I guess. Anyway, I own the Royal."

Scrubbing a hand against his apron, the portly barkeep hurried down the steps for an awkward handshake with the marshal commander. Reggie followed albeit with considerably less gusto.

"It's about time you guys showed up," he said, feeding the mallet's handle through a loop on his belt. "We were starting to think it'd be days before anyone showed up."

"Easy there, Hoss," Mick stepped closer. "What are you talking about?"

"What do you mean?" Reggie asked, fear popping into his dark brown eyes suddenly. "You're here for us, right? Well, not us specifically, I guess, but just civilians I mean. We heard a report on the radio that a shelter had been set up over at Samuel MacPhee Memorial High School." Seeing that his words were being met with only blank stares, the light in Reggie's eyes died and his voice dropped into the heels of his work boots. "They said that the police were going house to house to round up anybody who couldn't make it there on their own."

"Whoever reported that had some bogus information," Clarke snorted. "The cops haven't got a body to spare trying to keep all the quarantine blockades manned...and who even knows if any of those are standing anymore."

Cobb flashed back to the Raven's Gate Bridge. He could recall the panic of the officers as they opened up on the creatures and the way the mindless beasts had stalked through the hail of lead as if it were nothing more than a screen of raindrops. The memory of frantic voices shouting orders suddenly turning to thoughtless cries of agony made him shiver.

If the police had been wiped out, as Clarke had just insinuated, Cobb would not have been the least bit surprised. _Nothing's going to surprise me again if I make it out of this nightmare in anything other than a bodybag. _

"So...you're not here to help us?" Ross was crestfallen, his lower lip trembling as he smoothed back the few wisps of hair left on his balding pate.

"We'll help however we can," Cobb said, fearing that once again he was making a promise he would be unable to keep, "but until a minute ago we didn't even realize anyone was left alive in this city. In case you didn't notice, we had to break down your backdoor just to get in here. This wasn't exactly intended to be a rescue mission."

"Then what the hell are the U.S. Marshal's doing in Raccoon to begin with?" Reggie asked, an edge creeping into his voice as color flushed his cheeks.

"Escorting this sack of crap back to New York City," Gilson replied, clapping Drake roughly on the shoulder. "Unfortunately, he's having some trouble with his ears right now so you might need to yell if you want to get his attention."

"Actually, the ringing's starting to pass, Mike," Drake grunted, his volume back within a normal range. "Good thing too or I wouldn't have heard those nice things you had to say about me just now. Love you too, buddy."

"Fuck you," Gilson growled, tightening his hold on the hitman's arm.

"Don't bruise him, Gilly," Cobb sighed before turning his attention back to the squat barkeep. "You said there are others here with you?"

Ross did not seem to hear the question, his puffy eyes focusing in on Drake's flamboyant orange jumpsuit with careful suspicion. "He's a criminal? What's he wanted for?"

Sighing again, Cobb followed the bartender's narrow gaze to where Drake stood, his posture casual and bored, not seeming to mind being talked about as if he had already left the room. "About as many counts of murder as you've got fingers and toes," he answered plainly.

"He's exaggerating by a hand or foot," Drake replied promptly, soliciting a shake from Gilson. The matter-of-factness of the man's response seemed to catch Bert and Reggie off guard, leaving both men gawking, licking their lips.

"You said there were others here with you?" Cobb repeated himself then flashed the assassin a sharp stare. _Cocky prick. Not that there's any other kind. _

"Huh? Oh, right, right." Ross snapped out of his stupor fixing the marshal with clear, solid gaze once more. "Yeah. There's two others inside. Customers. They stopped by before the riots started then decided to stick it out here when things got hairy out in the streets. Come on in."

Following close on the heels of the bar's proprietor, Cobb and his team allowed themselves to be led down a slender, poorly corridor adorned with oil paintings - undoubtedly cheap knockoffs - depicting scenes of medieval balls, banquets and feasts. They strode past a pair of doors marked _Men's and Women's_, the former carved with a crown while the later was inset with the emblem of a princess' tiara. The scent of cigarette smoke hung in the air, heavy and thick, like a palpable cloud, teasing Cobb's nostrils. Turning a corner, Ross led the officers and their charge into a lobby that was nearly as dim and garishly decorated as the bathroom hallway.

An elaborate carpet stitched with whirling designs in bright crimson and royal blue stood out in stark contrast with the taverns collection of deep mahogany stools and booths. Hooded lights hung from dusty glass candelabras and while Danny was certain the look was meant to give the place an antiquated charm, it only seemed to emphasize the dank, shabby feel of the pub. From ceiling to floor, across every inch of wall space available, hung more tapestries of scenes from historical palaces that featured men and women - both equally whored up in tights and too much make-up - lost in throes of merriment and too much drink. Many of the paintings swayed lazily from their banners, ripped, crumpled or stained.

_Ross' Royal indeed, _Danny felt a moment's pity for the establishment's owner as he surveyed the tattered ornaments nailed to the taproom's walls. _If Bert fancies himself a king then it must be a king of the drunk and the poor. Hell, the ballrooms in these fifteen dollar forgeries look better than this place. _

"These two have been here almost all afternoon," Ross said, adjusting his apron to accommodate the girth spilling out over its hem as he lifted a latch and slipped behind the bar.

On the other side of the counter, near a window with the shutters drawn, a woman pulled on a cigarette and stared with disinterest towards the front door. Her platinum hair was fading to brown at the roots and though her skin was smooth about the cheeks and jaw, it was heavily creased and yellowing around her eyes and neck. Cobb suspected that years of puffing away on the vitamin sticks had added at least another ten years to the woman's appearance.

_Either it's the smokes, _he decided, watching as she tapped ash from the end of her cigarette into one of seven empty shot glasses arrayed before her, _or the booze. _

The _Royal'_s only other patron this afternoon was a young man with a greasy ponytail and lime green jacket. Seated at the bar when Danny and his team had entered, hunched over a half-empty pint glass, the drinker flashed the marshal's a quick glance before turning away momentarily. His eyes darted back violently a second later, reminding Cobb of a deer that had just figured out what the headlights speeding towards it meant. Jumping to his feet, the man rose with such abruptness that he would have knocked his beer end over end had Bert not proved surprisingly agile, catching the glass before it could tip over.

"Holy shit!" The youngster exclaimed. "Cops!" He laughed suddenly, madly. "You gotta be kiddin' me! What took you guys so long? Never mind, never mind. I'm not complaining. You're going to get us out of here, right? We just heard on the radio that -"

"I know what you heard, pal," Cobb said before the guy could really get going. He was excited enough as it was and God only knew how much he'd already had to drink. "You're going to have to chill for a few though. If you're expecting us to whisk you out of here in a a gunship then I'm afraid I'm going to have to smother that dream right now. We were almost dinner for a gang of slobbering psychos outside so if you're looking for answers about what the hell's going on, well, sorry but keep looking."

"Wh-what do you mean?" The young man asked, glancing from face to face, seeking clarification from anyone that might be able to offer it. "You aren't here to help?"

"What he _means, _Luke, is that we're screwed. I think that's pretty clear, don't you?" Blowing a ring of smoke between her rouged lips, the woman at the window spoke in a dry, rusty voice. "Then again, maybe you don't. You _do _seem to possess all the brainpower of a stone...and not a very big one at that either."

"Hey, Linda, fuck you." The youngster's features turned jagged and cold in an instant, a snarl curling his stubbled lip into a predatory rictus. "Seriously, you've done nothing but bitch since the moment I stepped in here. We've known each other, what, four or five hours and you're going to come off like you know everything about me? At least I'm trying to figure out what's going on instead of just sitting around pounding back shots of Absolut like it's water."

The woman - Linda - responded with a derisive snort and an extension of her middle finger. Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply from the cigarette resting between two long, slim, jaundiced fingers - sparing herself the sight of Luke clutching his groin and thrusting in her direction.

"Easy now children," Sheesh quipped, walking over to peek through a space in the shutters. "Don't make ma and me turn the hose on you."

"See anything?" Cobb inquired, shifting the M4 to his other shoulder. Behind him he could hear Godwin and Gilson shoving Drake into a booth in the far corner.

"There's probably about two or three dozen of the bastards out there, wandering around...having a snack. They sure got the drop on the demonstrators alright. Must be at least as many bodies out there. Buffet City...if you're a cannibal that is."

"Jesus, Sheesh!" Michelle spat, sickened. "You sound like you're describing the driving conditions out there for Christ sake."

"Hey, just giving you the facts, honey." Marty fired back then stiffened at the window suddenly. "Holy crap. Boss, there's dogs out there."

"You find that unusual for a reason, Sczchinski?" Cobb stepped up next to his deputy and pried the shutters apart a little wider. What he saw brought bile burning up the back of his throat.

Hearing the word _cannibal _was unnerving, disturbing and enough to conjure nightmares but _seeing _the reality of that word was much worse. Out in the streets of Raccoon bodies - fat and slim, tall and small - lay strewn along the pavement like human litter scattered by the wind. Around each corpse knelt a collection of four to five other men and women - creatures with pale faces and blind, white eyes - that feasted ravenously from the wreckage of flesh and bone. Blood slicked lips and chins as the infected ate mindlessly, loose strands of torn flesh dangling between chipped, brown teeth. Their moans, pitiful yet monstrous, seemed to rattle the glass before Cobb's face.

Weaving in between these gruesome cabals of cannibalistic frenzy, packs of dogs moved. Elongated snouts darted in just long enough to snatch a quick nip of meat before searching for a better angle to maneuver past the writhing, hungry dead. The animals themselves had the look of undead scavengers, their bodies hairless and scarred, revealing the pink and red of exposed tendons along their flanks and bellies.

_Maybe that's why the zombies don't seem to mind them poking around their meal. So they'll tear a living man to shreds but they leave those things alone? Why? Food is food, right, meat is meat but they're acting like they don't even see them...and vice versa. What are we dealing with?_

"What the hell is going on in this city?" Cobb breathed, aghast, stumbling back from the window.

"What is it?" Michelle asked, a frightened, impatient edge in her voice now. "What's going on out there?"

"Let's just say someone around here forgot to fill the food bowls for their pets for a _long _time and now the pooches are reverting back to, uh, baser instincts."

Cobb knew Marty's attempt at humor was meant as nothing more than a juvenile defense mechanism, that the man probably couldn't help himself at the moment, but even _he _felt like cracking Sheesh in the side of the head. "Shut your mouth, Sczchinski, and put it to good use for a change," he said holding his arms at his sides. "Get on the phone to HQ. Give them our sitrep and tell them if they want to see any of our pretty faces again then they better send a _shitload _of backup."

"Don't bother," Mick grumbled at Danny's back. He returned from the men's room, snapping his cell phone shut and thrusting it angrily into his jacket pocket. "Cell's are out. The tower's must be overloaded with so many calls going in to emergency services. Landlines are probably all busy too."

"You got a phone here?" Cobb asked turning to find Bert already staring at him. The man gave a shaky nod. "Try it."

Fishing out a portable phone from somewhere underneath the counter, the bartender pressed the receiver to his ear before scrunching his face up a moment later and thumbing down the _End _button with a rough grunt. "It's a recording," he muttered, "a fucking recording. It says something about all circuits being overloaded but to hang up and try again if it's an emergency."

"What a fine day this is turning out to be," Linda barked a sardonic laugh, snuffing out her smoke in the shot glass-turned-ashtray. She reached into the breast pocket of her black blazer and pulled out a fresh one.

_Jeez. First we've got rioters threatening to burn this place down around our ears, then it was zombies chasing us through the back alleys like rats in a maze and now the phones are out. What next? Earthquake, tidal wave, asteroid strike? _Danny shook his head and decided to silence that line of thinking before it could get out of hand. _Better not to tempt fate anyway. _

"Listen," Reggie said slowly, seeming nervous now that he was the focus of the marshal's attention. "If you guys aren't here to save our butts and you don't know what's going on then I'm thinking it's probably in everyone's best interests if we haul ass over to the civilian shelter."

"He's got a point, Danny," Drake chirped from his seat, looking diminutive with Godwin and Gilson standing watch over him. "If they've got a refugee station set up then there has to be someone there with a working radio. It's a better bet than waiting around for the phone lines to open themselves up again anyway, not to mention it might be the only place left in Raccoon where there's still people to be found...one's that won't try and tear your throat out in any case."

"Someone appoint you party advisor when I wasn't paying attention, Drake?" Danny muttered, sparing the felon only a fleeting glance from over his shoulder.

"It's either that," Drake shrugged, "or you convert this place into a fort and hope we can hold out until your people realize you've been missing long enough to send the cavalry in."

Exhaling a ragged breath, Cobb stomped away from Drake and leaned against a table close to the counter. It grated on his nerves how a murderer, how a man who had dedicated his life to taking it away from others, could be so cool and analytical all the time. It twisted his insides into knots how a man like Drake could be so _right _so frequently.

_Face it, Danny, he's not the typical whack-job or punk gangster you're used to. He doesn't kill because he's a slave to some sick compulsion. He doesn't kill because he gets a kick out of it. _

_He kills because he's logical, efficient and ruthless. He kills because he's _good _at it - and that makes him more dangerous than anyone knows...and right now he's got a point. _

"Where did the news report say the shelter was at?" Cobb finally asked with a defeated sigh. 

"Samuel MacPhee Memorial High School," Luke volunteered, ignoring the sarcastic snicker that rose from Linda.

"Shit," Clarke groaned. "That's more than _five blocks _from here."

"There's no way we could make that on foot," Mick grumbled, leaning against the counter near his partner, face red with frustration and exhaustion. "We wouldn't be able to get one block before those fucking _things _out there were all over us." He nodded towards the door.

"Th-there's another problem aside from that," Ross stammered, raising his hand as if he had just stepped into a classroom.

"Great," Cobb grunted. "I can't wait to find out what that is." _Alien invasion? Volcanic eruption? Avalanche? _

"Well, the report we heard...the one about the shelter...that was nearly three hours ago." Reggie answered for his friend. "They kept broadcasting the location of the shelter and then the...the station went dead." His eyes shifted nervously to Ross before fixing back on Danny. "We, uh, we haven't heard anything since. We haven't been able to get any stations at all."

_Me and my big fat mouth. Sure, guys, I'll get us through this, don't even sweat it. A mysterious plague? Ravenous zombies around every corner? No phones, no backup, no contact with the outside world? All in a day's work for Daniel Cobb! _

Pushing the self-deprecating, self-pitying voice from the back of his mind, Cobb pinched his nose and shut his eyes. He needed to focus, to think. "Okay," he said after a moment's contemplation, "here's the plan -"

"Are you serious?" Linda screeched suddenly, her metallic voice punctuated by an abrupt, phlegmy chortle that dripped with condemnation. "Plan? _Plan? _It's the end of the fucking world out there!" She stabbed one black-lacquered finger in the direction of the window. "How do you plan for that, you fucking nimrods? The second you step out that door you're _dead. _Do you understand that? _Dead! _

"Whatever. You want to go, go. We're all dead anyway, it's just a matter of when and how. Want to know my _plan? _I'm going to get so wasted off Bert's _swill _that I won't be able to stand. Then, I'm going to stretch out, kick up my feet, light up another smoke and -"

Glass shattered, wood splintered as a shadow came crashing through the window. Her emerald eyes wide and disbelieving, Linda screamed. Its red eyes glowing to mirror the beast's bloodlust, the animal snarled. A twist of the neck - so fast it may never have happened at all - and the dog was closing its long, powerful jaws around the woman's slender neck. Her high-pitched shriek warbled and changed to a wet gurgle as the canine's weight drove her effortlessly to the floor. Beneath the creature, Linda thrashed and struggled, succeeding only in annoying the animal and with another lightning quick jerk of its thick neck, the dog ceased its prey's squirming permanently.

_Holy shit, _Danny realised, too shocked to experience any fear yet, _it broke her neck like a goddamn toothpick. _

Two more of the decaying, crimson-eyed monsters leapt through the entrance their kinsman had so unceremoniously created, skidding across the table to sink their fangs into what remained of Linda's limp figure. Wildly tearing at her arms and legs, the dogs tore away clumps of fabric and flesh with primal abandon, swallowing the bloody mess whole to the sounds of satisfied grunts and gnashing teeth.

"_Jesus!" _Luke cried, his voice rising enough octaves to be considered pre-pubescent as he stumbled over the barstool behind him and came crashing down on his backside. "_Jesus!" _

"Get back!" Cobb screamed, raising his carbine, knowing it was too late to do a damned thing for the woman, when the window to his left blew apart in a shower of wooden and glass shards.

Growling, noses and tongues tasting the air, another pair of the undead dogs landed in the debris side by side, joined a moment later by a third. The beasts scrambled about across the bed of jagged detritus for a second, nipping at each others flanks as they struggled to regain their bearings. Tiny pools of blood spread beneath their paws but if this caused the trio any pain they gave no indication of it.

Adrenaline flooding his veins, heart pounding in his skull, Cobb whirled to face the new threat. Bursts of fire seemed to erupt from every side. Godwin and Gilson opened up at his back while Michelle and Sheesh added their own weapons to the fray from the right flank. Panicked, startled and terrified, the marshal's held their triggers down until the carbines clicked empty leaving little more than a pile of punctured, bleeding canine corpses beneath the Royal's windowsill. Hollow clicks sounded as, consumed wholly by their terror now, the marshal's minds seemed not to register that they were dry and continued to try and squeeze off shots into the mound of dripping fangs and claws.

There was a squeal, high and childish, as something dark tore past Cobb. Breathing shallow, head spinning, heart threatening to burst, it took the marshal a moment to realize the shriek had come from the young man, Luke. Pure, undiluted terror had lit a fire under the kid's ass and he charged headlong through the stunned ranks of Danny's team, elbowing, swatting and shoving at anyone who proved too slow in clearing a path. Still screaming, Luke veered sharply down a hall to the right, passing beneath a glowing neon orange sign marked with four letters that declared salvation: _EXIT. _

"I think he's got the right idea, Danny!" Drake's voice broke as he scrambled to his feet, nearly tripping over his own heels.

Wet, throaty rumbling to Cobb's right drew his wide-eyed stare. Stirred from their lunch by the clatter of gunfire or the death cries of their brethren, the pack of dogs that had been devouring Miss Linda turned their haunting, blood-red gazes towards the marshals. Jaws parted, trailing streams of thick, pink drool and though he was sure it was just his imagination, Cobb swore he could detect a hint of accusation in the creatures glowing eyes. _We know what you did to our friends, _they seemed to say, _we saw everything. _

_Crap, _Cobb let go of the spent M4, reaching for the Sig Sauer holstered at his side, _I hate it when Drake knows what he's talking about. _

"Tuck! Get everyone out of here now!"

Perhaps sensing his plan, the lead canine pounced. Barking a hellish burst of noise, the beast leapt at Cobb. Yanking the trigger back twice, the dog yelped as ragged bloody holes erupted across its peeling, barrel chest. Skidding back across Bert's carpet, leaving a dark streak on the worn fabric, the hairless monster made pathetic whimpering noise as it slashed frantically at the empty air, struggling to right itself.

_Those rounds should have popped its heart like a balloon. _Morbidly fascinated, Cobb watched as the dog gnashed and thrashed about wildly on the ground, finally managing to gain its hind legs once more. _Zombie dogs? Are you kidding me?_

"Let's go, boss!"

Mike's voice in his ear, loud and commanding, breaking through the confusing haze of his horror. Mike's hand on his arm, fingernails digging into the skin, pulling him roughly down the hallway after the others. Panting harshly, Cobb forced his legs to keep pumping as the sound of claws scratching across the carpet rose from only inches behind his bootheels.

_Faster! Faster! Faster!_

Danny could almost feel the creature's warm, fetid breath against his ankles, could picture those powerful daggers lining the beasts gums sinking into the soft, tender flesh of his hamstring. Then Gilson dragged him around the corner and there was Michelle, pistol in hand, feet locked in shooter's stance. Her weapon spat fire and one of the dogs behind Danny whined as it rolled across the floor. She fired twice more as Gilson and Cobb raced past, backing away to lay cover for the pair.

Shrugging off his deputy, Cobb noticed that Luke still had a healthy lead on the rest of the group. Pursued closely by Bert Ross and Reggie Brewer - who cursed and screamed at the man to slow down - Luke threw himself at the fire exit, the door's bar crunching his hip and swinging out so violently Cobb thought the man had taken it clean off its hinges for a second.

"Wait! We need to secure the outside first!" Danny cried but, heedless of his call, Luke darted into the grey, polluted daylight.

"Son of a bitch," Gilson hissed next to him.

"Goddamn it!" Cobb roared, bursting past the others. He jumped through the exit on the heels of Ross and Brewer, sending up a splash as he landed up to his ankles in a puddle. Though the sky overhead looked heavy, grey and threatening, the rain had stopped leaving the air cool and crisp. "Stop!"

Shoes skidding across the wet concrete, Reggie and Ross ground to a halt, looking back at Danny with askance and terror written plain across their pinched, lined faces. Luke though, was no longer in control of himself. Fear lent his legs strength and speed; plugged his ears leaving him heedless to every voice save the one in his head that screamed _"Get away! Get away! Never stop! Never stop!" _The young man charged down the alley, a high chain-link fence at its far end with blind corners to either side where any number of nightmares could lurk.

_Stupid kid's going to get himself killed. _Cobb pounded after Luke but the other man had at least three steps on him already. Knowing the only way to get Luke to stop would be to drag him down by the collar, Cobb saved his breath for running.

His panting the only sound Danny could hear above the beating of his own heart, Luke launched himself at the fence with a terrified squeal. Grunting, Cobb leapt, making a swipe for the man's dangling leg but Luke scrambled away with surprising agility. Gasping, sobbing, the young man pulled himself up and over the lip of the fence and landed with a shrill cry on the other side - another alleyway choked with rusty dumpsters and jutting corners.

As Luke dragged himself back upright he locked eyes with Danny for the briefest of moments, no longer than two seconds, but in those two seconds Cobb saw in the other man's eyes a profound astonishment. Luke, he knew, had just realized that he was still alive and seemed dumbfounded by the truth of that fact. Then Luke whirled and continued his frantic flight.

He made it three steps.

Controlled by terror, his brain shrouded in the fog of mortal fear, Luke could think only of escape and never noticed the pale arm slip out from beneath one of the green industrial dumpsters, nor the snarling, peeling face that came with it. He screamed, a cry of anguish and bewilderment, as fingertips and teeth closed around his ankle. Moans echoed through the narrow corridor as bone crunched and Luke stumbled to fall face-first against the damp ground. Three more of the white-eyed monsters lurched out from around the near corner and fell on Luke's back before he could even push himself back up to his elbows. He began to shriek again, high and hard, but not for long.

"Fuck!" Swallowing a rush of bile back down, Cobb shut his eyes, turned his head and staggered away.

"Son of a bitch," Bert breathed as he came jogging up, peering through the wire links to where Luke's body had vanished beneath a pile of undead flesh and gnashing teeth.

"Danny!" Michelle cried suddenly and everyone spun to see the girl backing away from a fenced offshoot to the left where five more of the hellhounds had appeared seemingly born out of the air itself. Growling and barking, the creatures lunged at the thin screen of wire mesh, their powerful mandibles rending through the metal like bolt cutters. Rabid hunger burned in the beasts' crimson eyes with an almost tangible heat.

"This place never quits," Cobb panted, glancing left and right. His mind spun, sickened and afraid, but absorbing his surroundings all the same, processing information, looking for a way out.

_Can't go left, those things will be through in less than a minute. So we retreat - run back to the Royal - only the window's broken now and God knows how many of those fuckers are climbing through as we speak. Can't hop the fence either - we'll all just wind up like Luke. Great. Just great. Only one way to go. _

Stomach fluttering, Cobb turned to his right, back towards the damp, desolate streets. Out there, the concrete would be crawling with the monsters. He could already hear their diseased moans riding the wind, their shuffling footsteps raking across the ground, as the zombies waited with a patience beyond measure. Awaiting their next meal.

_Lucky us, _Cobb grunted, feeling his options slip through his fingers like a handful of sand. _Either die here or out there. Gotta love it when fate gives you a choice. The hell with it. Might as well go down in flames than standing around with our thumbs up our asses._

"This way!" Danny shouted at the others as he heard the first of the metal links snap between the dogs' long canines. Leading the way, Cobb charged down the short path to the right, out onto the sidewalk, and the hounds went into a frenzy, thrashing against the fence as their dinner sought to make an untimely exit.

Legs churning out battery acid, heart fit to burst, Danny rounded the corner dripping cold sweat, terrified he was about to barrel headfirst into a wall of dead white eyes and peeling, bloodied hands. Instead, the sight that greeted him was much worse.

The street wasn't just littered with the pale creatures, it was _saturated _with them. For every inch of open pavement there were at least two of the undead, raw flesh beneath their fingernails, blood on their lips. Wailing senseless cries the zombies stumbled aimlessly down the road, bumping into the vehicles that had been left in haphazard patterns, as if strewn across the street by a careless hand.

_Super. Out of the frying pan and into the fire. _Cobb was beginning to wonder what gypsy he had offended to earn a hex like this. _No way we can run past all these bastards, not with those puppies nipping at our heels the whole way. We can't..._Danny didn't bother to finish the thought as he spotted the towering apartment complex on the other side of the road and, more importantly, the structures that twisted around it like a metallic snake. _Fire escapes! We can't outrun them but if we can get above this mess..._

"Make for that apartment building across the way!" Cobb shouted, signaling with one arm. "Get up the fire escapes once you make it. Clarke, Murphy, you lead the way, make sure you don't lose the civies. Michelle, you go with Drake next. Use the cars as a bridge to stay out of their reach."

"What about you guys?" Michelle asked, directing a pointed stare at Cobb.

"We'll cover you." When the girl failed to look convinced, Danny sighed and shook his head. "Don't worry, Mich. We'll be right behind you."

Uncertainty in her eyes, Michelle could only grab Drake by the scruff of his neck as Murphy yelled at the pair to follow. Cobb watched the six set out, the two detectives clearing a path as they raced for the first line of cars. Reggie and Bert followed close on the heels of the two gumshoes, Bert clenching his shotgun tight against his chest looking as if he had half a mind to use it while Reggie ducked instinctively every time a shot was fired, cringing as one of the creatures ahead of them went down in a spray of blood and brain matter. Using one arm to shove Drake in front of her, Michelle unholstered her pistol with the other to cut down anything missed by Marshall Clarke and his partner.

"Cover their flanks!" Danny shouted at the rest of his team, slapping a fresh clip into his M4 before pulling the stock tight against his shoulder. Automatic fire erupted around Cobb, his bones rattling with the concussion of the weapons. Out in the street, gore splashed across windows and wet pavement, the creatures whirling and dropping as the hail of lead punched through skulls and ribs. The stench of gunpowder and blood was overwhelming, leaving Cobb feeling lightheaded.

Danny held the trigger down on his carbine until he was afraid it would break but the weapon simply clicked empty. Frantically reaching for another magazine, the marshall saw deputies Gilson and Tucker already reloading out of the corner of his eye. Sheesh looked sick as he drew a bead on a trio of creatures closing fast on Michelle's right as she struggled to shove Drake up onto the hood of a minivan. A burst of .223s later and all that could be seen of the three was a puff of red vapors drifting across the cool air.

"Fuck," Cobb swore as he fumbled with the clip, the plastic slippery between his sweaty fingers. A sharp staccato of clicking noises behind piqued his hearing and froze his heart solid. The sound was like nails tapping across concrete. "Dogs!" He screamed, finally slamming the magazine into the breach of his M4. "They're through!"

Cob spun, hoping the animals were further away than they sounded, but Gilson and Tucker were already on it. The two big men settled into a crouch, side by side and fired full auto into the pack of killer hounds. Pitiful yelps were swallowed up by the crack of gunfire. Limbs twitched, sleek canine bodies shuddered and blood flew. In a moment all that remained of the fearsome five was a tangled mound of legs and heads spreading a crimson pool.

"Better than obedience school," Gilson grunted to Tucker as the two rose and Godwin only shook his head.

"Boss," Sheesh called, voice breaking, "we've got a new problem."

Danny turned again, feeling dizzy, and saw what had disturbed his deputy. The virus carriers in the street were no longer solely interested in Michelle and her bunch. Closing in on all sides, those creatures that had been the furthest from the group when the two detectives started across were now the closest to Danny and his team. The closest within five feet, Cobb could see drool spill between their cracked teeth as the smell of warm meat sparked the monsters' insatiable hunger.

"Time to go," Cobb muttered, slinging the carbine around his neck. "Sheesh, you first. I'll watch our asses."

Without the time or space to argue, Marty darted across the street, jumping onto the roof of the first vehicle - a silver Chrysler - followed closely by Godwin and Mike. Pumping his arms and legs to keep up, Danny was only a step behind. Groaning, Cobb pulled himself up onto the roof of the Chrysler and monitored the progress of the others, his heart dropping closer to its normal rhythm as he noticed that no one had fallen from the pack.

Michelle crouched on the roof of a teal minivan now, still holding onto Drake's collar like a leash while she spread out covering fire for Reggie and Bert as they scrambled atop the van, taking a moment to catch their breath before leaping across to the next vehicle. Murphy slid across the minivan's hood as if he were pulling a move from an episode of _T.J. Hooker _and charged ahead, his revolver spitting thunder and death. Marshall remained on the ground just long enough to put two through the face of a woman in a blood-spattered jogging suit who had wandered too close for comfort before accepting a hand up from Reggie Brewer.

The dead covered the ground, ragged holes decorating foreheads, noses and eyes and though there were too many for Cobb to count, it was not enough. For every one of the creatures they killed - for every one put out of its misery - two more came to take its place. Drawn by the chorus of gunshots or the sweet smell of human sweat, the zombies arrived from up the street and down. Moaning and growling, they staggered around every corner, out of every alley, from every conceivable niche along the road.

"Jesus," Cobb panted, drawing his pistol and snapping off the safety. "We should have packed more bullets for this trip."

"Boss!" Sheesh shouted from the middle of the street, sparing his commander a glance and waving frantically before turning back to open up as a group of three of the cannibal monsters came around the trunk of a sedan. "Come on!"

Danny noticed that his three deputies had taken the more direct route across, not bothering to jump from car to car, using the vehicles as a makeshift bridge above the undead. The trio simply ran, gunning down anything that came between them and the next step ahead. The men ran in a loose circular pattern, darting ahead only to spin back to lay cover for the two behind.

"I'm getting out of shape," Cobb grumbled, hoping from the roof of the Chrysler across to the already dented hood of a blue Taurus. He jumped down and spun sharply to his right, squeezing the trigger of his Sig twice and dropping a balding man with an ink-stain on his dress shirt and a blood stain on his lips. Pushing off the Taurus, Cobb charged with his head down, sucking wind as he fought to catch up with his team. Gritting his teeth as he ran, Danny focused on the stabbing ache in his legs to keep from thinking about the burning agony in his chest.

_That'd be a heroic end. Survive ravenous hordes of undead monsters just to drop dead of a heart attack smack-dab in the middle of the street. _

Danny ducked and dodged around the creatures, slipping past the grip of cold, stiff fingers. Time lost all meaning. He could have ran for a day, a decade and not known it. There was no sound but his starved breathing, even the report of his sidearm went muted. Ghastly white faces with harsh red teeth reared up in front of Cobb but he no longer felt fear. He either side-stepped the ghouls or put a .45 round through their faces.

Air turned to fire in his lungs. His heart, on overdrive, thumped like a mechanism on its last gear, ready to snap, and the blood it pumped felt like glass flowing through his veins. Live or die - Cobb no longer cared. Either way, he would be able to stop running.

_Almost there, _Danny thought, feeling giddy as the apartment complex came into view, less than ten feet away now. There was a small iron gate ringing the grounds of the building, which Michelle was unceremoniously dumping Drake over. _She's gone from babysitter to dog-handler with that one, _Cobb thought with a delirious smile, blinking away sweat. The smile disappeared in the next instant.

"Bert!" He screamed, finding new legs now, willing himself to go faster. "Behind you _goddamn it!_"

Ross turned towards Danny, his face a contorted mask of bewilderment that quickly faded to stark terror as the marshal's words sank in. The bartender whirled around, mouth gaping, as two of the carriers bore down on him. Frantic, Cobb fired three times but a running shot was a chancy thing at best - let alone a headshot - and the rounds went wide. As Ross stood frozen in place, the hands of the dead closing around his shirt, Cobb swore, stopping to draw a bead on the closest.

There was a thunderous blast and the pair of undead were swept back their torso's shredded and burned. Staggering about on uncertain legs for another moment, the pair collided with one another and dropped to the sidewalk, their wails turning to gurgles as they spewed up pink froth. Stunned, Danny lowered his weapon, turned to see an equally shocked looking Ross starring down at his blood spattered apron and the smoking double-barrel in his hands.

_"This old thing's an antique, to be honest with you. Probably blow up in my face if I actually pulled the trigger," _Bert had commented during their first meeting, what seemed a lifetime ago now. Danny could have laughed. _I guess that thing's not such a relic after all. _

Hurrying across to the other side of the road, Cobb shoved Bert back a step and put a shot through the temple of either of the creatures as they struggled to rise. "Let's go," he said, giving the barkeep another push in the direction of the gate. Finally, looking nauseous and weak, Ross dragged himself over the fence, Reggie taking his arm to help him along.

Hurdling the gate himself, Danny charged ahead to take point, running across the short lawn to the nearest of three tall beige brick structures. In his periphery, Cobb could see more of the creatures spilling out from the crevices and corridors between the buildings. Twenty turned to thirty, thirty became forty, and forty became fifty or more. Spinning, Danny stopped to let the others catch up - and shook his head as another fifty of the zombies came tumbling over the short gate.

_Bastards were closer than I thought. _Danny resisted the urge to tear out his hair in frustration. _This place never quits. _

Turning back the other way, Danny stormed forward. He craned his neck up and saw the fire escape hanging overhead. Despite all its rust and bent iron bars, it still looked like a hovering angel to Danny, ready to whisk them all away to safety. Grinning, Cobb put his head down and bolted forward, the pain in his legs forgotten with salvation so close at hand - then his eyes hit the pavement and he skidded to a halt.

"What's the hold up?" Gilson demanded from the back row.

"The ladder's up," Cobb croaked, choking on his luck. _I _really _must have pissed that gypsy off. _"The fucking ladder's up."

The pathetic groans of the virus carriers sounded closer than ever as Cobb, in a cold sweat, stared disbelieving at the empty fifteen feet of space between the foundation and where the first floor balcony connected to the fire escape. _Fifteen feet? Might as well be fifteen thousand. _A drainage pipe trailed down the wall but there was more than ten feet of space between it and the balcony rail. Cobb doubted anyone in his group possessed the athletics to climb up and make the leap.

_What's Plan B then? Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!_

"Tuck, give me a boost. If I stand on your shoulders I can probably - "

"Hey!"

Michelle hissed as Drake pushed off her and would have fallen if not for Marty's quick hands. Cursing, Cobb leveled his Sig with Drake's right knee - the bastard had picked a choice moment to run - and went stone still as the murderer leapt onto the drainage pipe. Handcuffs and all, Drake straddled the pipe using his feet to push and his hands to pull. Grunting with exertion, the hitman made it halfway up, seeming to hop more than climb up the pipe's length.

"I'll be goddamned," Godwin muttered beside Danny, "that crazy son of a bitch is going to try and jump it."

Scrapping footsteps and a wet gurgle brought Cobb spinning around once more. Milky white eyes starred back into his own, cold fingers dug into his shoulders and with a shout of disgust Danny kicked the creature away. He brought his pistol up and fired twice through the top of the carrier's head.

"Hold them back!" Cobb screamed, holstering his sidearm and unslinging the M4 again. _So help me God, Drake, you better not just scramble up that pole and straight to the moon. _"Form a line!"

Shoving Reggie and Bert back against the wall Cobb charged into the center of the formation and held the trigger down. Danny didn't bother to aim - didn't need to - the lawn was choked from left to right with the shambling corpses. Heads popped and bodies dropped as the other marshal's added their own weapons to the chatter of gunfire. Clenching his teeth, Cobb willed himself to keep his eyes open, to pick another target but he could already feel his bowels turn, his stomach roiling with cold dread and horror.

_This is the worst. _Cobb could no longer make out faces among the walking corpses, all he could see was a wall of grasping grey hands and a haze of red mist. _This is the worst thing I've ever seen, the worst thing I've ever had to do. In twenty years, this is the worst. These people used to be normal, just like anyone else, then they got sick...they just got sick. _

Clicking empty, Cobb reached for another clip - only to discover he had run dry. Swearing with violence, he drew his pistol and flinched as Murphy's Magnum roared beside his ear. Thunder boomed inside his skull twice and then a dry, hollow crack followed by Mick's own choice of obscenities.

"I'm out!" The detective cried, looking at the revolver as if he wanted to strangle it.

_No kidding. We've got more in common than you might think, Mick._

"Up here!" Drake bellowed and Danny risked a glance back. Somehow the felon had managed to leap from the pipe onto the apartment's balcony. He flung himself over the ledge and darted across to the far end of the fire escape. It took two kicks to drop the ladder but the sound of the iron rungs clattering to the pavement was music to Cobb's ears.

"Go!" Cobb said slapping Murphy on the shoulder. "Reggie, Bert, you go with him!"

The three took off scrambling up the ladder as Danny and the others fell back, still firing. Sheesh fell into step beside the commander and glanced up to where Drake was even now helping Murphy onto the landing. Shaking his head he nudged Danny with his elbow.

"How the hell did he get up there?" Marty asked between bursts of automatic fire. "He a goddamn spider monkey on top of being a hired killer?"

"You complaining, Sheesh?" Danny asked, firing twice more before he ran dry.

"They're up," Clarke called suddenly, already charging for the ladder. "Let's move!"

Cobb pulled himself up last, trying to keep his fingers out from under Sheesh's boots and his own above the clawing nails of the creatures below. As Drake pulled Sheesh up the last rung, Cobb accepted a hand up from Godwin and promptly fell onto his back, gasping for breath. The adrenaline left his system as quickly as it had surfaced, making every ache and pain in his chest, sides, arms and legs all the more acute. Light-headed, dizzy and flooded with the high of being alive Cobb fought off the urge to puke, drawing himself back up onto his elbows.

"I've read every file ever written on you," Danny told Drake who sat on the ledge of the apartment balcony to give the others more room. "Not once did I ever come across anything about you being in the circus."

Drake smiled that two-thirds grin of his and shrugged. "In my line of work you pick things up. When you do what I do, sometimes walking through the front door is a good way to get yourself shot in the face."

"Shot in the face, huh?" Sheesh wheezed, doubled-over and pale. "Doesn't sound so bad," he paused to peer over the railing of the fire escape, "when you consider the alternatives."

Following his deputy's gaze, Cobb glanced down to where the undead had clustered around the ladder. Festering, grey hands clawed at the open air, seeking in vain to drag the living back down. Pitiful cries of mindless anguish and suffering drifted up, touching what the creatures fingertips could not. Danny shivered and turned his back on the infected below.

"Put a lid on it, Sheesh," Cobb scolded with a sigh. "We'll figure a way outta here."

"Oh yeah?" Mick laughed darkly. "You know where we can find a tank then? You still think we can make it all the way to the survivors shelter? We barely made it _across the street_ and you want to run through another five blocks of _that?_"

"Not through that," Cobb answered, calling to mind the map of Raccoon he'd studied so laboriously before and after boarding the plane from New York. "We're going across those."

"You're kidding, right?" Clarke asked, one eyebrow quirked skeptically, glancing up to where the marshall was pointing. "We're going to run across the roofs? Are we all supposed to channel Spiderman or something?"

"If we are where I think we are then these apartment complexes run for more than two blocks," Cobb explained. "The buildings are all fairly uniform, no more than a few feet apart from rooftop to rooftop. We'll use them as a bridge, same way we did with the cars. Those things down there don't seem too sharp when it comes to climbing ladders or opening doors so the roofs should be clear."

Glassy, disbelieving stares were the only reply Danny received before, Drake of all people, was the first to nod. "I guess the safest place to be in a storm is above the clouds," was all the hitman muttered before starting up the next level of the fire escape.

Eager to keep an eye on the slippery assassin, Cobb hurried after the man but was stopped as a heavy hand closed around his arm. Danny looked up to see Gilson peering down into his eyes, the big man's own trembling with a terror so sharp Danny could feel it stinging in his gut like the point of a knife. _He's shaking, _Cobb realized as the hand encircling his bicep like a vice began to rattle nervously. Mike Gilson was a freight train - powerful, fearless, unstoppable when he had his mind set a certain way - and surely no man was immune to fear but to see his deputy literally shaking in his boots put a second dagger in Cobb's belly.

"Listen, boss," Gilson whispered, his voice sounded pinched and thin, a metal wire stretched to its breaking point. "I'd follow you to Hell if you asked me too - shit, I'm starting to think I already did - so if you want us to run across the rooftops like the Justice League then I'm down but...I have to know...you've got a plan right?"

Cobb stood still, transfixed by the hand on his forearm, Mike's fingers twitching worse than a fish on dry land. In their years together, Danny had watched Gilson dodge bullets without breaking a sweat. He had seen the other man take a punch to the face without blinking an eye - Gilson just grunted and hit back ten times harder. The man had chased down rapists, murderers and every other type of human slime the world had to offer and where fear should have shone bright in his eyes there had been only a madman's glee. All light was absent from those eyes now though, nothing remained but a thick, quivering darkness.

_I guess this place is even crazier than you, Mike. Christ. What did I walk us into...and better yet, how the hell do I get us out?_

"Don't worry man," Cobb replied, giving Gilson's shoulder a slap that was meant to be reassuring but almost certainly came off as a touch too nervous. "I've got a plan."

It was a weak answer, lame and plain but Cobb could think of nothing better to say. Fortunately, Mike seemed to accept it, nodding to his commander before relaxing and finally dropping his hold on the other man's arm. Danny gave his deputy one final look of concern before turning his attention back to Drake.

"Out of all the places in the world," he muttered, "you just had to pick this one. Son of a bitch."

_Five blocks to go. _Danny told himself as he climbed after the assassin. _No phones. No back-up coming. Mindless, flesh-eating zombies clogging the streets, killer dogs around every corner and we're running low on ammo just to make things interesting. Do I have a plan? Hell yeah, I do. _

Once he caught up to Drake, Danny clamped a hand over Drake's shoulder and pushed him to the back of the line. Taking up the point, Cobb unslung the M4 from around his neck and snapped the bolt back.

_Stay alive. That's my plan. _

Author's Note: So I'm just going to go ahead and stop giving due dates because I can never meet them. Sorry again for the long delay. I won't tease you by telling you when to expect another update but just know that you _should _expect one soon! Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoy and please review.


	9. Blindsided

**Chapter Eight: Blindsided**

"You're kidding."

"No, I'm afraid I'm not."

"Maybe you don't have a proper appreciation for the seriousness of our situation then."

"I fully understand the severity of your position right now, Sarah. That's why I have to stand by this decision - one that wasn't solely mine to make, I might add. This incident isn't under the direct purview of the CDC, we may be spearheading it but keep in mind we're working with the WHO and the Umbrella Corporation as well. The recommendation to re-establishquarantine before evacuating survivors was made jointly and, whether or not you want to believe it, I do _not _have the power of veto here."

_Umbrella? _Sarah frowned into the monitor set on the desktop before her. "Why is Umbrella consulting on this? They're a manufacturer for God's sake. Epidemic control doesn't exactly strike me as something that should be right up there alley."

Director Barnes' exasperated sigh and roll of the eyes made Sarah wonder if the old bugger understood the finer points of the VI-COMM SAT-PHONE. _I can see you as clearly as you can see me, jerk. _

The VI-COMM SAT-PHONE - video communications satellite phone - was just one more multi-million dollar tool that came with the MRRU and was, in many ways, perhaps more valuable than the rest of the van put together. When Sarah had first joined the CDC, Homer had explained the VI-COMM as "Vo-IP with a webcam". In essence, the unit was an oversized laptop with a satellite transmitter/receiver attached that had enough signal strength to connect to any other VI-COMM device practically anywhere in the world.

In addition to its communications uses the unit's impressive memory and processing capabilities also made it an excellent research and analysis tool. Files could be stored and shared between the VI-COMM and any other computer. Sarah had transfered all the files pertaining to the RS cases from her personal laptop to the VI-COMM to keep CDC brass updated on her findings.

"Yes, they're a manufacturer, Sarah." Barnes' be-quiet-little-girl-and-maybe-you'd-learn-something tone set her teeth on edge. She felt her fingernails digging into the heels of her hands. "They also employ some of the brightest minds in the fields of virology, genetics and micro-biology. Not to mention the billions of dollars worth of technology they have at their disposal. When they offered their assistance in this matter we weren't exactly going to tell them 'No thanks, we're going to handle this one on our own.'"

"They sure are interested in this place," Sarah mused as she glanced back to where Hargreaves rested, his head tilted back against the van's wall, eyes closed but one hand wrapped firmly around the grip of his pistol.

"That would be because Raccoon City _is _Umbrella," Barnes replied. "Nearly forty-percent of the workforce in town is employed by the corporation in some way, shape or form. Without the money Umbrella brings in, Raccoon's economy would not exist."

"So the company's still hell-bent on saving this little cash cow then, huh?"

"We can't all be altruists like you, Sarah."

_Fuck you, Stan. _

"Listen," Barnes continued, "the director of the WHO has called an emergency meeting in an hour. CDC personnel, including myself, will be attending as well as some of Umbrella's higher-ups. We'll be discussing what the proper course of action is. In the meantime, U.B.C.S. troops have been mobilized to re-establish the quarantine surrounding the city."

"The U.B. what?"

"The Umbrella Bio-hazard Countermeasures Service," another roll of the eyes from the director. "They're a private force the company uses to deal with situations like this. They don't have experience with anything of _this _magnitude but they have done this type of thing before. Last year their was an anthrax outbreak in a small town in the Czech Republic, local authorities didn't have the resources to handle the problem so the U.B.C.S. was sent in to work containment."

_Private troops? _Another glance back to where Hargreaves was blinking himself awake. _Sounds a lot like code for "mercenaries" to me. What the hell does Umbrella need it's own little army for? How common are these outbreaks that there's a service devoting to dealing with them?_

"If they're already sending in the cavalry then why can't they have a squad or a unit or whatever come and pick us up? None of the people with me and Homer are infected and if my word alone isn't good enough then I can conduct blood tests on every one of us and send them to you directly within the hour."

"That's not the issue, Sarah," Barnes sighed taking off his spectacles to rub at his puffy eyes. "The issue would be _getting to you_. We're all in agreement that we can't risk anymore infected. No one is to enter the city until we've had a chance to re-evaluate what's going on."

"_Re-evaluate?" _Sarah screamed into the monitor and could feel the eyes of the three men turn to her. "I just _told _you what the situation is. I just sent you _weeks _worth of research. Christ, Stanley, if you don't believe that then turn on a _fucking TV! _ What's happening here must be plastered over every channel by now. The bottom line is that the situation is seriously _messed up _and we need to get the hell out of here _now." _

"I understand that, Sarah, but _you _need to understand something too." An angry shade of crimson was rapidly creeping into the director's cheeks, Sarah could almost feel the heat radiating off the man through the high-def screen. Apparently Stanley Barnes was not the sort of man who enjoyed having his decisions challenged so vigorously. "We _have _reviewed your findings. We _have _been watching the news reports. We've seen people reduced to cannibalistic monsters by this virus. We've seen neighbors tearing each other apart in the streets. We've seen a city literally losing it's mind and it has us - _all _of us - scared. Scared shitless because we don't know what the hell to do next but we _do _know that we won't be sending anyone else into that nightmare until we figure it out! Is that clear?"

For a moment, Sarah found herself at a loss for words, her own fury fading as Barnes glared at her from the other side of the country. She understood then that she had misjudged the hard-nosed director and it shamed her. Barnes wasn't upset at being questioned, he was upset at not knowing what to do. He was furious with himself because one of his people needed answers, needed help and he could offer them nothing. He might have been an asshole - but at least he was an asshole that cared.

"Yes, sir. Crystal clear."

On the other end of the VI-COMM, the CDC director took a moment to regain his composure. He inhaled and exhaled deeply, removing his spectacles to rub at his eyes again and Sarah wondered when the last time Barnes had slept was. Some of the red faded from the man's face as he scrubbed a hand back through the shock of white hair that frosted his crown and cleared his throat.

"Listen to me, Sarah," Barnes went on more softly, "I'm doing everything I can for you all on my end here but like I said, this isn't a solo effort where I get to call all the shots. For now, find a safe place to hold up and I'll call you back as soon as I can."

Closing her eyes, Sarah lowered her face into her hand, not caring what Barnes would think of her mental strength from the reaction. She sighed heavily and shook her head. _Find a safe place? Yeah right. The only safe place is in a helicopter flying away from here. _

"Understood," Sarah muttered in a defeated tone, looking up again. "I have one last request though, sir."

"What's that?"

"Don't forget about us." Sarah waited just long enough to watch the anguish wash over the director's face before she hit the ESC key sharply and the monitor went dark again. Stifling another sigh she snapped the screen closed and walked back to the front of the van where the others had gathered.

"Wait, don't tell me," Tommy said as he caught the deflated look in Sarah's eyes. Closing his eyes, the less-than-intrepid reporter pressed a hand to his forehead, feigning psychic abilities. "I'm getting something. Hang on...hang on...here it comes. No one's coming...we're stuck here...basically we're fucked. That about sum it up?"

"Shut up," Sarah growled, dropping heavily into the seat beside Hargreaves, opposite the sarcastic sleaze-ball. Sarah tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She grimaced at the slick, greasy feel to it. "I'd give my left arm for a hot shower right about now."

"What'd Barnes' say?" Homer asked from the driver's seat eyes on the road. A heavy rain was falling but, for the time being at least, the street they were on was blessedly clear of any carriers. Sarah was less than optimistic about how long that would last though.

"The CDC's convening a meeting in an hour with WHO and the Umbrella Corporation - the other assisting parties in trying to clear up this whole mess." Sarah spoke but she felt like an independent listener to her own voice. Her tone was monotonous, the voice of a robot, a machine programmed to regurgitate facts. All Sarah, the real, human Sarah, cared about was closing her eyes and drifting off to sleep - drifting away from Raccoon City. "Barnes said their priority for now is re-establishing the quarantine of the city since the integrity of the police blockades can't be guaranteed anymore."

"They seemed to be doing just fine when we tried to roll through." Tommy grumbled but Sarah was too tired to admonish him again.

"Nobody's going to be allowed out," she continued, "and no one's coming to get us. Right now, they're more concerned about getting the city sealed up tight as a drum again - they'll worry about saving our butts when they can. For now, the plan is to send in some of Hargreaves' buddies there to keep things under control...oxymoron that that statement is."

"What's that?" The security guard asked with a raised eyebrow.

"The U.B.C.S."

"Those guys are no buddies of mine," Harold grunted darkly. "We might get paid by the same people but they have a...different way of doing things than me."

"Oh yeah?" Sarah couldn't say why but she felt a pang of dread creep up her spine at Hargreaves' response. "What's that?"

"Scruples, for one thing."

The nervous pang became a ringing alarm bell. "What is _that _supposed to mean?"

Hargreaves looked up at the young virologist with shaded eyes. His jaw was a clenched vice, his lips pursed together in a thin line with wrinkles of mistrust creasing his weather face. "Nothing. Forget it."

Narrowing her eyes, Sarah opened her mouth to say more, to push the issue but a sharp _thump! _overhead drew all eyes to the ceiling. The noise was followed by several scrabbling sounds, as if a dog was scrambling to find purchase on the slick roof of the MRRU.

"The hell was that?" Tommy squeaked, rising slowly to his feet, sweat beading along his forehead as he stared intently at the ceiling, eyes squinted as if that would give him X-ray vision.

"I don't know," Hargreaves rose carefully, pistol held loosely in his right hand.

"Homer!" Sarah called up front, not daring to take her eyes off the roof. "Can you see anything up there?"

"No! Wh -"

_WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!_

The ceiling buckled with each of the blows, the concussions sending a violent tremor through the vehicle, rocking its inhabitants. Heart fluttering, Sarah cursed as her knees bumped roughly with the edge of the bench. Across from her she heard Tommy's whimper as he landed flat on his ass and Hargreaves' sharp intake of breath as he trained his weapon on the roof.

"What the fuck is that!" Tommy screamed, backing away on his elbows. "_What the fuck is that!_"

"Don't worry," Sarah said slowly, finding it hard to follow her own advice as she studied the massive dents in the MRRU's ceiling. _Nothing should be able to do that kind of damage. Nothing. _"The roof's made of reinforced steel. It'd take hours to cut through with an acetylene torch. There's no way it's going to -"

Metal groaned and complained as five six-inch bone talons punched through the roof of the MRRU as if it were the lid of a tin can. Tommy swore and jumped across to the other side of the vehicle as something heavy slammed into the wall he had been leaning against leave a misshapen bruise in the steel plate. A moment later another set of claws tore through that side, peeling back strips of metal like rice paper. Sharp, piercing bestial cries sounded from outside, unlike any animal Sarah had ever heard in her life.

"Homer!" She screamed ducking as the claws above raked through the ceiling. "What the hell's going on out there?"

"I don't know!" He called back, swerving wildly now. "I can't see the damn things!"

"Hit the fucking breaks!" Hargreaves bellowed, firing his weapon through the gaps in the roof, close enough to Sarah that she fell to her knees, palms clamped over her ears.

"_Do it!" _Tommy shrieked, seemingly unashamed. "_Stop the van! Stop the van!" _

"Hang on!" Homer shouted into the back before stomping heavily on the breaks.

Rubber squealed and Sarah found herself oddly wondering when the last time the MRRU's tires had been changed. The van skidded and fishtailed violently to the left. Sarah looked up and saw Homer fighting with the wheel, trying to stabilize the hulking steel beast. Hargreaves cried out as Homer pulled them roughly back to the right, knocking the security guard off his feet and the handgun from his grip. Overhead the primal screams ripped the air once more, high with surprise and outrage now.

"Son of a bitch," Sarah spat as the van shuddered to a halt and something pitched across the roof with a strangled yelp. A sputtering, panting Tommy Chan had found his way on top of the young researcher during Homer's adventure with the breaks. She adroitly shoved the photographer aside. "What... _the fuck..._was that?"

"I told you, I couldn't see them." Homer said, poking his flushed, sweaty face into the back. "I couldn't see them but I think -"

Homer's thought went unheard as whatever lurked outside slammed into the van's left side with the force of a bulldozer. As the MRRU flipped up onto two wheels Sarah shouted and heard the others do the same as they as Homer was flung into the passenger seat and the rest went down in a tangled ball of humanity. No words, mere nonsensical outbursts of terror. Then, suspended as it was, axels groaning, the van was rammed again. This time, Sarah yelled louder.

There was a low, metallic moan before the MRRU came crashing down on its side. Sarah grunted as she hit her head on the bench and something warm spilled down the side of her face. Equipment spilled from the tables in the cabin, clattering across the floor. Notes and files thumped dully to the floor in an avalanche of paper. Cables snapped and sparked. Glass crunched. The horn began to blow.

It could have lasted ten minutes; it could have lasted less than a second. Sarah could hardly recall as she blinked her eyes open and felt the glass entwined in her hair. She reached up to brush it away but grimaced as a dagger of pain shot through her skull. Her fingers came away damp with blood and threads of blonde hair. Grunting, she tried to shake the cobwebs - and the pain - from behind her eyes.

Before she could gain her bearings she felt a hand press down on her back hard enough to make her cry out aloud. There was the momentary stench of sweat, the sound of harsh breathing and then the pressure was gone. She watched, feeling strangely distant again, as Tommy Chan vaulted over her and dashed through the back doors of the MRRU which had swung wide open after the crash.

"Bastard," Sarah groaned, brushing the glass fragments from the back of her hair, twisting her neck around.

The MRRU had been unceremoniously tossed onto its side, much of its equipment spilled across the benches that now lined the floor. The left side of the van - now serving as the ceiling - looked as if it had been peeled back with a can opener, rain from outside now leaking into the cabin and the ceiling - now serving as the left side of the van - was in similar shape. Behind Sarah, the cab was empty, the driver's side door hanging loosely on its hinges.

"Homes?" She called out groggily and winced as a fresh lance of pain jabbed her behind the eyes.

_What the hell happened? _Climbing up to her knees, Sarah shook the last of the glass out from the collar of her lab coat and tried to burn away the confusion that had settled over her brain like a thick gray mist. _This thing's supposed to be able to roll over land mines like their speed bumps. _Nothing _should have been able to kick us over like a friggin' Hot Wheel. _

More sobering than that thought was the realization that her multi-billion dollar armored tank-without-the-cannon had literally been _peeled open_. There was no animal on Earth she had ever heard of that was capable of a feat of strength like that and as strong as the carriers were, none of them had the fingernails to do that level of damage. The memory of those talons ripping through the steel like tin - impossibly thick and unforgivingly sharp - made Sarah shiver.

_"Homes?" _Sarah called out more loudly, feeling terribly alone all of sudden..and terribly afraid. "Homes?"

No answer. The front cab stood empty, one door swinging listlessly in the early evening breeze. The air became too cold then, the silence outside too thick. Though it made her cringe with disgust, Sarah could feel tears stinging her eyes, stinging the back of her throat with the salty taste of abandonment.

"Stop it, girl," she chided herself, scrubbing fiercely at her eyes with the back of her hand, swallowing her sobs to keep from breaking down completely. "He would never leave you. No matter what he said...he would never just leave you."

Behind her, Hargreaves' groaned and Sarah was thankful for the distraction. Moving carefully to avoid cutting herself, she slid up next to the injured security guard and tried to roll him onto his back. Sarah growled and hissed, straining hard but was unable to even get Harold's shoulders off the floor. She began to curse at his prone form, shaking it as desperation and adrenaline cut the chords of her frayed nerves.

Unable to hold back the flood any longer, the tears came unbidden and unwanted now. Weeping, Sarah's shoulders trembled with as much violence as she shook Hargreaves'. Even as she cried, the young doctor's mind pummeled her with invisible fist, screaming at her for being so weak and pathetic, for breaking so easily. Sarah didn't care though. She was tired and alone and afraid. She wanted Homer. She wanted _someone, anyone_ to come and find her and tell her everything was going to be okay.

Once again, she felt the way she had when the doctors had told her that both her parents were gone forever. She was a little girl, on her own, in a huge, dark, uncaring world. Just a little girl.

The harsh crunch of metal, interrupted Sarah's raw sobbing and whirled as something climbed into the MRRU through the gaping space on the left side. Few of the overhead lights had survived the crash but the two that had were more than enough, casting the creature in a unearthly white glow. Bile rose into Sarah's mouth as the fingernails of dread raked along her stomach, the beast illuminated with painful clarity.

Hunchbacked but no less imposing, the creature still stood at least six feet tall. Ropy muscles coiled around powerful arms and haunches covered in muddy green scales that gleamed in the artificial light. The same scales covered the beast's broad, triangular skull, causing the burning red eyes to stand out in stark contrast as the thing tilted its head to the side and peered down low into Sarah's face. A metallic, almost robotic, clicking sound began to emit from the beast's throat.

As terrifying, as _alien, _as the creature was Sarah had eyes only for the six-inch talons that grew from the monster's fingertips. As the beast hunched lower, its claws dragged across the floor of the MRRU. Sarah began to shiver uncontrollably. She had seen what they had done to the titanium-reinforced steel walls of the van and could only imagine the ease with which they would be able to part flesh and bone.

_I might as well be made out of rice paper._ Whimpering, Sarah scrambled back towards the cab on her elbows, bits of glass digging into the heels of her palms though she hardly noticed.

Pursuing her with the slow, measured patience of a natural predator, the creature bent low and Sarah could almost _feel _the heat from its flaming, ruby eyes. The walking, crimson-eyed nightmare stepped over Hargreaves' still figure, tipping its head left and right as if trying to discern where its prey was in such a hurry to get to. Whatever conclusion to the creature came to, seemed to be one it was not at all fond of as its jaws parted and the beast loosed a shrill scream.

"_Skree! Skreeee!"_

Crying out, Sarah instinctively clamped her bloody palms over her ears, afraid the drums might burst otherwise. Saw teeth, nearly as long and sharp as the talons sprouting from its fingers, lined the creature's upper and lower mandibles. As the thing shrieked, Sarah caught a whiff of its fetid breath, heavy with the stink of sour meat and something like sulfur. She could feel her belly spasm and throat lock as a strong urge to vomit took hold.

Backpedalling as fast as she could, her heart hammering painfully against her ribs, Sarah knew she was about to die. It didn't matter though and she didn't care anymore. At least she could rest then. At least she could stop feeling so damn afraid every second, so confused and terrified by how insane that huge, dark, uncaring world had become.

_Death is easy. Death makes sense. _

Muscles flexed and bunched in the creature's squat legs as it bent low, ready to pounce. Sarah matched gazes with those crimson, soulless eyes and swallowed her tears. Whatever her fate, she wouldn't meet it crying like a lost child.

Two shots exploded within the walls of the MRRU. The creature stumbled and screamed again the noise making Sarah jump and grimace as she clapped her hands over her ears again afraid her skull might shatter from the sudden eruption of noise. Two more shots hit the beast in the back and shoulders. It spun around to face the threat and Sarah could see Hargreaves scrambling back crab-style, his gun-hand extending, firing a volley of shots into the beast's barrel chest.

"_Sarah!" _

The voice came from above her and the analyst snapped her neck back. Homer leaned through the doorway, holding out his hand. Her partner's glasses hung bent around his nose and blood dripped down the side of his face from a thick gash on his forehead but Sarah had never been happier to see the old fart.

"Homer!"

"Take my hand!" The old biologist bellowed, shaking his arm frantically, pushing more of his bulk through the doorway.

Another pair of gunshots tore through the MRRU and the hulking beast let go another feral screech. Black blood ran freely from a plethora of wounds in the creature's back, chest and abdomen but the monstrosity seemed more annoyed than injured. Crouching low, the beast threw itself at Hargreaves' with startling agility. The security guard managed to roll out of harm's way at the last moment and the monster's arm punched clean through the floor of the MRRU, trapping the beast just above the elbow.

"_SKREEEEEEE!" _

The primal, animalistic cries grew in intensity as the creature thrashed and writhed, struggling to free its arm. Jagged metal edges slashed its arm, spilling more oily blood across the floor but the beast only fought harder to loose the trapped appendage. Hargreaves used the moment's respite to crawl out the back.

"Sarah! Come on! Please, take my hand!" Homer was fighting to grab hold of her now, failing, trying to grab her shoulder.

Sarah gave the screaming beast one final look before hopping up to her feet and grabbing onto Homer's thick wrist with both hands. She felt his rough knuckles and the fingers on his other hand wrap around her own as he started to draw her up. Her feet were off the deck when sudden realization dawned on the young scientist and she fought free of her partner's grip, dropping back to the MRRU's floor.

"Sarah, what the hell are you doing?"

"Hang on!" She called back up to Homer who looked nearly apoplectic. "I have to grab something!"

She had seen it in her last look at the thrashing, outraged mutant but had been too overwhelmed, too high on adrenaline and pure terror to process its importance until now. The VI-COMM lay less than three feet from where the creature fought to unhinge itself from the van's floor. Their only link to Barnes and the CDC. Their only chance of making it out of Raccoon alive.

_I can't leave it behind. _

It took all of Sarah's fragile courage to dart into the back of the van, the floor trembling beneath her feet as the monster shrieked and squirmed, its inky blood running in streams across the floor. Sarah spotted the unmistakable bulky laptop with a satellite phone molded to its back under one of the research tables near a stack of discarded notebooks and file folders, just outside the creature's reach. Swallowing thickly, her eyes on the writhing beast, Sarah took a step forward.

Dropping to her knees, she reach out tentatively with one hand, her fingertips grazing over the satellite phone attached to the case of the computer. Sweat dripped down her face as she watched the monster continue to hiss and buck but the beast had no mind for her even despite their proximity. Sarah felt her heart flutter with relief as she managed to snag a firm hold of the phone and slid the laptop across to her. Grabbing the case in both hands, Sarah leapt to her feet and started back towards the cab, blowing out a breath she must have been holding since birth.

A sudden screech at her back made Sarah spin and scream as a second of the scaly freaks came leaping through the open side. It dropped low and shrieked high, spreading its claws as it charged forward on powerful legs. Panic turning her thoughts into a shapeless blur, all Sarah could think about was getting back into the cab, back to Homer. She hurled herself at his outstretched hand and screamed something that might have been "Pull me up!" or simple gibberish - she couldn't remember.

Whatever it was, Homer seemed to understand. He caught hold of Sarah's outstretched hand and yanked her up with enough force she thought he meant to rip her shoulder out of its socket. She kicked her legs up and felt the air beneath them split. There was a heavy crash as the beast's momentum carried it past her and straight through the windshield. Glass scattered wildly as the yelping monster rolled out over the hood.

Homer hauled her out into the early evening darkness, the rain stinging in her cuts even as it washed away the dried blood. Dropping down first, Homer turned quickly before helping his partner down. He looked pointedly at the VI-COMM clenched beneath her armpit before fixing his colleague with a withering look all the same.

"Save it for later, old man," Sarah told him, reading the look in his eyes. A tirade about irresponsibility and foolishness was well on its way. "Use your breath for running now!" Grabbing hold of Homer's lab coat, Sarah dragged him along in her wake as she could hear the beast scratching and clawing as it fought back to its feet.

As the pair careened around the corner of the MRRU they skidded to a halt, nearly colliding with Harold Hargreaves. The left side of the Umbrella guard's face was a bruised, blood-drenched mess but the man gave no sign of any discomfort as he went about deftly reloading his pistol.

"We need to get out of here," he said with a calm that suggested car crashes and mutant attacks were all part of a day's work. "Company's coming." He cocked the slide on his pistol.

Sarah heard it then - the dry, empty moans of the infected. She spun in a full circle, her brain on automatic as she scanned the surrounding streets and alleyways. She spotted them almost instantly. Shadowy, shambling figures with pale faces and paler eyes.

"The noise of the crash must have drawn them out." Homer said breathlessly, half-stepping to either side as if trying to decide on where to run and dissatisfied with all the options.

"No shit," Hargreaves muttered. "Here's the plan. We're going to head up the street and start kicking in doors. Stay _right _on my ass. You fall behind, I'm not coming back for you. Any questions?"

Sarah started to open her mouth when a high pitched wail made her snap her teeth together. The scaled creature - the Troll as she was coming to think of it - leapt up onto the traumatized hull of the CDC van, perched over the hole torn in its side. Spreading its clawed fingers wide the Troll craned its neck back and let a shrill screech rip the night air.

"Shut the _fuck _up," Hargreaves hissed next to Sarah. He took a moment to readjust his aim before squeezing the trigger three times. Dark blood and bone chips exploded out the side of the beast's knee, sending it tumbling into the belly of the MRRU with a warbling cry. "Fucker."

Turning on his heel, Hargreaves tore up the street, not bothering to check back to see if the two researchers were right on his ass. Sarah grabbed Homer's sleeve as he stared dumbfounded up at the MRRU - no doubt still picturing the Troll with its head bent back, howling at the rising moon like a demon celebrating its release from Hell - and pulled him after her. The cool evening air scorched her lungs, leaving Sarah feeling like she was breathing acid, but she dug her nails into her partner's arm and kept her eyes locked on Hargreaves' back.

_What the hell were those things? _Sarah was amazed that she still had the capacity to think coherently after everything that had just happened. Her whole body felt numb and fuzzy but she managed to find the co-ordination to continue putting one foot in front of the other. _Trolls? This place is just a few steps removed from being a fairy tale and that's the _only _place you should find Trolls. Christ, this place makes the Twilight Zone look like a playground. _

Could it be the virus? Sure, the bastard could mutate, change its colors faster than a chameleon in a palm tree but to re-order the DNA of a host so completely that it changed them into one of...one of..._those_?It was unthinkable. Impossible, even for a sci-fi writer who'd swallowed one too many acid tabs.

_Too bad words like "unthinkable" and "impossible" don't apply in this place. _

"Woah," Hagreaves said, stopping up suddenly as they neared a fork in the road ahead...one that was completely and thoroughly blocked by the undead. Grey-faced men and women in soiled business suits, blood-soaked police uniforms and all other manner of clothing imaginable choked the path ahead and to either side. At least a hundred of them, maybe more. Stumbling, bumping into each other, heedless of the others blocking their way, they gnashed their teeth in eager anticipation. Wet gurgles rose from their throats.

_Oh God..._

"How many bullets do you have in that thing, Harold?" Sarah asked, already backing up, looking for an exit. Small shops lined either side of the street, most of which had their windows and doors boarded over.

"Not enough," came the gruff reply.

"Hey! Over here!"

Three heads spun around as one. Sandwiched between a hardware store with its windows blown out and a florist patched up with more boards than a sinking ship was a small cafe. Tommy Chan stood framed in the doorway, waving frantically his eyes sharp and wild with terror.

"Tommy?" Homer said incredulously, his feet already moving towards the photographer's hideout.

"Hurry!" He screamed back waving with both arms now, looking as if he were practicing to be an air traffic controller.

Sarah took off after her partner. Arms pumping, nostrils flaring, her eyes locked on Tommy's face with the measured focus of a laser. _I'm either going to kill him...or kiss him. _

Leaping over a fallen sandwich board on the sidewalk, Homer barreled past the photographer with Sarah hot on his heels. Hargreaves was last inside, shoving Tommy rudely out of the way and slamming the door shut. He flipped the bolt, secured the chain lock and threw a table across the doorway just for good measure. The Umbrella guard then promptly dropped into a chair and began to shiver uncontrollably with his face in his hands.

_Seems self-control only lasts for so long. _Sarah thought about giving Hargreaves a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder - if anyone understood the need to sit down and have a good old cleansing freak-out then it was her - but she had the distinct feeling that he would only snap at her fingers. A roughneck like Harold Hargreaves probably wasn't used to being coddled. _Especially in this place._

"Holy shit," Tommy breathed, standing stock still in the corner where Hargreaves had pushed him. Rivulets of sweat coursed into his patchy beard. "Holy shit holy shit holy shit."

Taking short, measured, deliberate strides Sarah paced across the room to where Tommy huddled. She caught hold of the slimey little weasel's jacket, looked him square in the eye and punched him in the nose as hard as she could. His muffled squeal was _highly _satisfying.

"_Ow!" _He spat out a spray of blood as his nose leaked into his mouth, the flow making his speech thick. "Wha tha fuck did chew do tha for?"

"For trampling me into the ground while trying to save your own hide, you rotten little _bastard!" _Sarah hissed.

"Ey, I cam back for chew guys, didn't I?" Tommy pinched his nostrils shut, trying to stop the rush of blood.

"How'd you get in here anyway?" Hargreaves asked without looking up from his palms.

"I, uh, ran." His words cleared up now that he didn't have to talk around a mouthful of his own blood. "This was the first place I found that wasn't either sealed up tight or busted open every which way by the rioters. I tried the front door but it was locked so I ran around back and the door was open. Can you believe that shit?" He chuckled. "I heard your voices outside and here we are. Lucky huh?"

Sarah stomped on the urge to hit him again. To tear her focus away from the burgeoning desire to make Tommy Chan bleed more profusely, Sarah contended herself with studying the restaurant.

The layout was ordinary and free of much decoration. A few cushioned booths lined either wall with several circular tables arranged throughout the middle of the floor. Fixed to the far wall was a large chalkboard with the daily specials written in flowery handwriting. Opposite it was the hostess stand and a bar counter that ran the length of the wall. A pair of metal double-doors with porthole windows rested at the end of the counter - an entrance into the kitchen. Open vents ran the length and width of the ceiling, spaced between light fixtures shaped like cheap candelabras that hung cold and dark.

"Stop," Sarah said as she noticed Homer reaching for the light switch out of the corner of her eye. "Christ only knows what _else _is out there looking for a snack. Let's not give them any clues as to where we are."

"I'd ask 'What the hell were those things' but I'm starting to get tired of that question." Homer sighed, dropping his hand.

"Doesn't matter what they are." Hargreaves said looking up, his face a mask of granite once more. "This city is a freakshow so we need to stop being so surprised when the freaks come on the stage."

"So...what now?" Tommy asked, scrubbing his nose with the sleeve of his leather jacket.

"I need to call Barnes," Sarah mused, more to herself than to answer the prick whose face she had just rearranged. She walked around the cafe, closing the blinds as she picked the glass from her hands. "I'd rather do so from a secure location though and this place isn't exactly Fort Knox."

"What, you want to try your luck on the streets again?" Tommy laughed though the high pitched, quivering tinge to it spoke more of horror than humor. "Hope we just stumble across another one of those friendly SWAT teams like before? You know what, I don't care if you punch me again. _Fuck you_! I am _not _going back out _there _again!"

"Keep your voice down," Hargreaves growled. "We can't stay here. That door won't hold if even half a dozen of those bastards start trying to bang it down. You better call your boss while we've got the time to catch our breath, doc."

Sarah nodded and sat down at one of the booths, cracking open the VI-COMM and firing the unit up. Homer slid into the seat opposite her, taking off his glasses and rubbing at his tired eyes. He flashed a confused look at the dried blood on his fingers as if perplexed at how such a thing had happened.

"Stop staring like that," Sarah told him as the screen flickered to life. "You're as pretty as ever."

Homer snorted, put his glasses back in place. "I knew we were in for the long haul here. I knew this thing was like _nothing _we had ever seen before but...I never expected any of _this._"

"Yeah well," Sarah kept her eyes on the screen as she punched in her security code, "get used to it, Homes."

"Listen, Sarah, about what I said before...back at the hospital...I didn't -"

Both of them jumped as something heavy threw itself against the front door. The knob rattled, the door trembled in its frame. With a yelp, Tommy leapt out of his corner and scrabbled across the floor on hands and knees. Groans, hungry and hollow rose in a chorus amid a clatter of hammering arms, demanding entrance.

Hargreaves' chair scrapped across the floor as he rose to his feet, the guard's face tight as he watched the shaking door. Slowly, he looked down at the weapon in his hands, studied it a moment then popped the clip out and thumb a loose round into his hand. He deposited the bullet in his vest pocket before snapping the magazine back in.

"What are you doing?" Homer asked.

Hargreaves looked at him for a moment before answering. "Saving one for myself."

Swallowing thickly, Homer looked away, unable to bear the matter-of-factness that rested heavy in the other man's eyes. Sarah too, dropped her eyes back to the monitor of the VI-COMM, punching in Barnes' number with fingers that had gone ice cold. She felt Homer's eyes on her and found herself unable to look up. Not because she was mad, no, but because of the shame she felt over her initial reaction to Hargreaves' comment.

"_Good idea", I thought._

**Author's Note:** Another update to come soon! Please read and review. Thanks to all my readers as well.


	10. Cavalry

**Chapter Nine: Cavalry **

There was a moment of weightlessness and then gravity reasserted its dominance. Danny felt an unpleasant tingling sensation that reached from the pit of his stomach down to his testicles as his legs kicked out over the thin gap of empty space between rooftops. The feeling vanished in a heartbeat as his legs returned to solid ground, gravel crunching beneath his boots.

_This is a lot less fun than it looks. _Exhaling a breath that he seemed to have been holding for hours, Danny glanced back over his shoulder as the rest of his people made their landings. Everyone seemed to manage it well except for Bert Ross who nearly lost his footing but was saved from an embarrassing tumble as Godwin caught hold of his shoulder.

"I don't think I can handle much more of this." Ross gasped, his face was as white as a fish's belly and nearly as wet. "Feels like my heart's trying to run up my throat and escape."

"How much longer do we need to keep this up?" Brewer asked, doubled over with his hands on his knees.

"Not much longer." Danny glanced across the way, saw that they only had another three buildings to go before they ran out of real estate. "We'll take five but no more than that. We're losing light."

Turning his back, the marshall heard a few grunts and sighs as the others sat down to rest burning legs and catch their breath. Pacing across the gravel, Danny moved to the lip of the roof and glanced tentatively over the edge. The street was too far below to make out any details but he could see the vague outlines of people shambling through the alleys, walking drunkenly into one another without seeming to notice.

"Fucking freaks." Gilson's voice so close to his ear made Danny jump. He hadn't even heard the man approach.

Danny glanced over at his deputy. He could see the fear hidden beneath the disgust in the man's eyes. Mike's pupils were diluted and trembling. His thick jaw was set so tightly that Danny expected to hear his subordinate's teeth crack at any second.

"We don't need to deal with them for awhile." Danny said, backing away from the edge. "Enjoy it while you can. How are we set for ammo anyway?"

"Pretty much fully loaded for the sidearms," Gilson answered absently, his gaze still on the mob of wandering creatures below. "We handed out the rest of the mags for the M4s but if we have another situation like we did at Ross' we'll be dry before too long." Snorting loudly, Gilson spat over the edge with a scowl before stalking away to rejoin the others.

Danny watched the deputy walk off and wondered just how much damage the man's psyche had taken. In a single day they had all seen enough horror for a lifetime - _two _lifetimes even. Mike Gilson could be a prick sometimes but for all that he was a _tough _prick. Danny had never seen the man so...hostile before.

_Or wound up as tightly as he is now. I've seen that man laugh right in the faces of people who've tried to stab and shoot him. Shit, he had his teeth knocked out by a drug dealer once and all he did was smile a bloody smile right in the bastard's face before he tossed him in the back of a squad car. _

If Gilson was starting to go a little squirrelly then Danny knew that didn't bode well for the rest of his team. For the rest of _any _of them. There was only so much someone could see before their coping mechanism was overwhelmed and their mind went spiraling down a deep, dark well.

_Not that there's anything I can do about that right now. _Cobb sighed and moved away from the edge. _I just have to get everyone out of here and hope that the department's willing to foot the cost of our therapy bills. _

Long shadows stretched out across the rooftop and Danny grunted as he realized he had lost track of time. He glanced up to see the sun's final light fade from the sky. Darkness descended quickly, filling the sky with fat, black clouds.

"Everybody up," Danny said. "It's hard enough jumping these things in the daylight. Everyone go -"

"Wait!" Drake said, standing up so suddenly that Michelle jumped up behind him to instinctively grab hold of his jumpsuit. He seemed not to notice. "Do you hear that?"

"Hear what?" Bert asked, eyes wide as he looked around left and right, no doubt wondering what new nightmare was about to befall them.

"I don't hear shit," Gilson growled.

"No! Listen!" Drake insisted and the desperation in his voice forced silence on the group. "There...do you hear that?"

"What are you..." Danny stopped as the soft noise reached his ears. It was a smooth, _whup-whup-whup_ sound. Danny recognized it a second before Sheesh shouted.

"That's a helicopter!"

Danny craned his neck and perked his ears, trying to determine where the bird was coming in from. He spotted it a moment later, coming in from the west, tracing across the sky to the rear of the rooftop. The chopper was a massive black beast, a personnel carrier most likely, visible against the darkening sky only because of the cockpit and taillights.

"Sheesh! Tuck! Pop flares!"

The two men ripped open their utility pouches and each withdrew a pair of orange road flares. Red smoke hissed upwards as the deputies struck the sticks, waving them frantically above their heads. Danny raised his M4 and began snapping the attached flashlight off and on. A second later he noticed Gilson doing the same thing in his periphery.

"Down here! Down here!" Reggie laughed as he jumped up and down waving his arms faster than the two marshals. "Hey! We're here!"

"They're coming in too fast," Danny heard Clarke mutter.

_Something's wrong..._

The helicopter continued to close but its path was no longer smooth. The chopper bucked left and right like a dying animal going into spasm. The sound of its rotors splitting the air seemed off too, it had grown more rapid and haphazard. _Whupwhupwhup-whup-whupwhupwhup-whup. _When Danny saw the waves of smoke coming off of the bird he felt his heart sink into the pit of his stomach.

Shocked into horrified silence, the survivors watched as the helicopter passed overhead. Spiraling out of control now the smoking chopper whirled out across the streets and slammed into the middle of the road almost a block away. Even high atop the roof of the apartment building, Danny felt the reverberations of the concussion as the copter slammed into the earth, tearing up the pavement to the sound of screeching metal and breaking glass.

"Fuck me..." Mick Murphy breathed at Danny's side. The detective looked older than Cobb remembered.

"Goddamn it!" Gilson roared, he stormed over to where one of the flares had fallen and kicked the burning brand off the side of the roof. "_Fuck!"_

Without a word, Danny moved to the lip of the rooftop and felt the others line up beside him. Reaching into his pouch he fished out his compact field binoculars and peered out towards the crash site.

Upon first inspection it seemed unlikely that anyone could have survived the impact. Skinny tendrils of thick grey smoke rose from the husk of bent metal. The rotors continued to spin lazily, like a child's pinwheel in a gentle breeze. Danny caught sight of a U.S. military insignia painted onto the warped beam of the helicopter's tail end.

"There goes the cavalry," Danny sighed lowering his binoculars.

"Wait," Drake said, "look. What's that?"

Cobb raised the field glasses again. A lone figure crawled out from the wreckage. He was dressed in dark green and beige fatigues complete with flak jacket and ballistic helmet. Danny recognized the weapon gripped in the soldier's hand as an M4 carbine. He also recognized the patch stitched to the shoulder of his uniform.

"Army Rangers," Danny told the others, still looking through the binoculars. "Looks like just one of them...no, wait. There's two...three...four...son of a bitch! There's eight of them down there!"

Below, Danny watched as the soldiers scrambled to organize themselves. Some staggered away from the wreck shaking their heads as they teetered on uncertain legs. Others pulled their comrades to their feet, dragging them clear of the smoldering ruin. One Ranger ran around the body of the chopper and reached in through the shattered cockpit window to help the pilot climb free. Through the binoculars Danny could see the grimace on the man's face as his legs bumped the window frame.

"Those boys have trouble headed their way," Tucker said, nodding down towards the streets.

Danny lowered the binoculars. Drawn by the thunder of the crash, the creatures overrunning Raccoon turned in the direction of the fallen chopper were moving in to investigate. They moved inexorably slowly up the street to where the copter's rotor blades had finally stopped turning. Hideous moans filled the early evening air, as if the monsters were still capable of eager anticipation.

"We've got to get down there," Danny said.

"I'm sorry, _what?_" Mick asked, cocking his head at an angle and squinting at the marshal commander. "We've _got _to get down there?"

"We can't just leave them down there." Danny scowled at the surly gumshoe. "Those guys have no idea what's about to hit them."

_What if they do though? Whatever this disease is, it's hardly run of the mill. What if...what if it's a spill or something? Some project that leaked from a government lab and now the army's here to try and cover it up..._Danny gave himself a mental slap across the chops. _Getting just a little bit paranoid there, aren't you Danny Boy? Keep it together. _

"No but we sure as hell do!" Mick swept a hand out to encompass the streets below them. "Look at all those fucking things! There must be a hundred of them down there. You've got some crazy ideas, Cobb, but you don't strike me as being _suicidal_! We're low on ammo and, in case you haven't noticed, we have two _unarmed _civilians and a man in handcuffs with us!"

"He's got a point, boss." Michelle said, a hand still wrapped around Drake's collar.

_That he does. _Cobb chewed his lip. _Fuck fuck fuck! What do I do?_

Danny turned away from the stares of the others to glance back over the edge of the roof. More of the zombies came stumbling up side streets or out of alleyways, joining the horde as it set off in search of its next meal. He could just see the outlines of the Rangers as they scrambled around, trying to secure their downed bird when they should have been running for their lives. The sound of those soulless wails told Danny he was wasting time.

"Gilson, Tucker, you're with me." Danny said as he drew his pistol and snapped the safety off. "Sheesh, Mitch, take the two dicks and get everybody to the high school. We'll catch up with you once we get the Rangers out of there."

"You sure you want to split up, boss?" Marty asked. "I'm no brain or anything but this doesn't exactly seem like the ideal time to be dividing and conquering."

"I'm not planning on conquering anybody, Sheesh. We're going to run in, get those guys the hell out of there, and run out. We'll be back behind you before you even know it. Everyone game?"

Danny received terse nods from everyone - save for Mike Gilson. He matched stares with the deputy and could see the tension in the other man's eyes. The fear swimming behind Gilson's gaze had him wound so tight he looked like a guitar string - ready to snap if plucked the wrong way.

"Gilly?" Danny asked gently. "You with me?"

Gilson didn't move, didn't blink. He just stood there, his jaw clicking as he chewed his own teeth. The soft tapping of the sweat dripping from his face and onto the gravel rooftop was unnerving. Finally, he nodded as well but it was only the slightest tilting of his neck.

_Come on, Gilly. Even Sheesh is keeping it together better than you. Don't crack up on me now. _

Crackling noises split the momentary silence, drawing eyes back out into the streets. A group of the creatures had already converged on the crash site and judging by the series of flashes sparking in the darkness, the Rangers had discovered there was only one way to deal with them.

"We're wasting time," Danny hissed, "let's go."

Godwin kicked open the roof access door and one by one the survivors filed down into the apartment building. The stairwell leading into the complex was, thankfully, free of any of Raccoon's residents. Danny was the first one through the door into the building's lobby. Peering around the corner he surveyed the corridor.

The hallway was empty. A plain brown carpet ran the length of the passageway to a security desk that stood deserted. Both sets of glass-front double doors that lead into the complex had been shattered by a trashcan that now stood on its side just underneath the directory.

Outside, Danny could hear the distant _pop-pop-pop _of gunshots but inside there was only silence. _Quieter than the inside of a deaf man's ear, like dad would say. _Danny nodded to himself and turned back to face the others.

"Alright, sounds like most of those things have cleared out towards the crash site. " He said. "We're not going to get another chance to move through the streets like this so make sure you run like hell for the school. Sheesh, Mitch, radio in as soon as you reach it or if anything changes. Got it?"

"Five by five, boss." Michelle said then jabbed Marty in the shoulder. "You take point, Sheesh."

"With pleasure," the skinny deputy muttered sourly before taking off down the hall. He ducked his head through the broken doorway and checked the street before signaling the others forward. Bert and Reggie moved up first, followed closely by Drake who once again had Michelle leading him by the scruff of the neck.

Danny watched them move out into the night before waving Gilson and Tucker forward. "Let's go."

The three men ran out into the night, weapons at the ready. Their boots beat across the pavement but this paltry noise was immediately swallowed up by the cacophony of repeating gunfire and wet moans.

After a two minute sprint, Danny could see the wreck. Smoke trailed up into the sky from the giant black beast as it lay broken and twisted in a small crater of ruined concrete. The Rangers had suffered the misfortune of crash-landing in the middle of a four-way stop. The street ahead was already filling up with the undead, as was the avenue branching off to the right-hand side. Though Danny was unable to see either of the other paths he would have bet good money that both were choked with the stumbling, lurching creatures as well.

_They might be dumb but they aren't deaf. When this thing went down it must have sounded like a dinner bell to these things. _

Danny and his deputies approached from behind the crowd. There must have been fifty to sixty of the zombies on the street itself but Danny noticed that the sidewalk running up the right was clear. He led Tucker and Gilson that way, keeping as much distance between them and the creatures as possible.

Gunshots rang out again, a seemingly ceaseless rattle of automatic fire. Unintelligible shouts punctuated unintelligent moans. Screams of either supreme agony or supreme fear - maybe both - ripped the air.

Danny reached the intersection with Gilson and Tucker huffing along. A scene of carnage had been arranged to welcome them.

Four of the Rangers were already down, that Danny could see. Their ravaged bodies lay at various angles in a loose ring around the intersection. Clearly their attempted perimeter had failed to protect them.

Blood pooled around the corpses but little detail was visible - a boot here, an arm there, a helmeted head poking out - as each of the fallen had been swarmed by members of the horde. They sat on the soldiers' chest, knelt by their legs, clawed at their arms. Danny swallowed a mouthful of hot bile as he watched those peeling, melted faces tear at exposed flesh, coming away ringed in crimson and worse.

A fifth Ranger grimaced and swore as he was forced up against the body of the helicopter by a pack of the creatures. They pinned his gun arm against the hull and then two of the things tore a chunk out of his forearm. The man had just enough time to scream before another of the creatures wrapped it's jaws around his throat. Four more of the monsters in tattered clothing converged to join the feast. They blocked the dying Ranger from sight and for that, at least, Danny was thankful.

"Hey!" A voice shouted from behind and the marshall flinched. He hadn't realized he'd been standing still, holding his breath. "Hey! Get your asses over here!"

Danny turned to see a group of men huddled at the north end of the intersection. He counted four, three were dressed in full combat gear and carrying M4s. The fourth wore a dark green flight suit. The soldiers had their backs pressed up against the corner of a drug store. As Danny raced over he saw that he had been right - both roads were swamped with a steady flood of the living dead.

"My name's -"

"I don't give a _shit_ what your name is!" The Ranger's wrinkled face contorted with equal parts rage and horror. "What the _fuck _are _those _things!"

Danny looked back over his shoulder. The zombies were converging from every direction, forming a moving barricade of diseased flesh. Gilson and Tucker charged out into the street and opened up, popping heads with their 9mms but doing little to keep the bastards at bay. The horde's front ranks would be on them in less than five minutes.

"You'll have to believe me when I tell you that we have about as much idea as you do...lieutenant." Danny said, reading the bars of rank on the man's shoulder. The name patched stitched onto his flak jacket read _BRIGGS._

"Sir!" A baby-faced soldier at Briggs' back slapped him on the shoulder and nodded back towards the chopper. Danny saw the kid's patch read _SHIVERS._ "Look, it's Duncan!"

The helicopter's spider-webbed windshield shattered as a pair of booted feet kicked it out onto the nose. A second later another man in a flight suit scrambled free. A thick gash had split open his bald scalp, trickling blood down over his flat face. Danny saw that the pilot or co-pilot gripped a .45 calibre pistol in one hand. He fired it indiscriminately into the crowd mobbing his chopper.

"They've got him fucking surrounded," Briggs grunted in a low voice. "Scaggs, get out there and help whoever this fucker is hold these shitheads back. Shivers, you got that thing locked and loaded?"

"You know it, L.T." Shivers raised his M4 and Danny noted the M203 40mm grenade launcher attached.

Eyes widening, Danny bellowed at his men, "Gilson, Tucker! Get back!"

It was too late though. Before either deputy could even process the command, Duncan made a move to reach the roof of his downed bird. His foot slipped as he tried to mount the rotor wheel. He made a wild grab for one of the blades, missed and tumbled over the side, into the eager arms of the mob with a surprised shout. He disappeared amid a frenzy of grasping hands and gnashing mouthes.

"Goddamn it!" Briggs roared, his face dyed a deep red now.

"Anyone seen Hammerstein?" The other Ranger, Scaggs asked between loosing quick bursts into the crowds approaching from the north and west. He was a tall, imposing man with enough stubble that his face could have been used as a piece of sandpaper in a pinch. A thick, white scar bisected his face in a jagged diagonal line.

"No," Briggs spat. "The captain's fucking meat by now."

"Can I implore you gentlemen to get the _fuck off _this street?" Danny screamed above the sporadic reports from long-arms and pistols alike. "We think there's a civilian shelter set up a few blocks from here if you'd be so kind as to follow us."

Briggs studied Danny for a second, his color gradually fading back to something resembling pink and nodded. "Shivers! Clear this man a path. Sergeant Scaggs, give me a hand with Thorn."

The two men grabbed the arms of the other pilot and slung them around their necks. Only then did Danny notice the vicious wound marring the man's left leg. His pant leg was shredded and most of his calf muscle had been torn away. Blood had pooled around the appendage as he sat on the ground, leaving a dark, sticky stain on the pavement. Fresh drops fell into the crimson puddle as Briggs and Scaggs lifted the man to his feet. Thorn gripped a pistol loosely in one hand but judging by how his eyes rolled frantically inside his skull, Danny doubted he'd be able to use it if he wanted to.

"What happened to him?" The marshall commander asked.

"What do you think?" Briggs snapped. "Those motherfuckers bit him."

_Shit. _

Did that mean that in a matter of hours - minutes? - Thorn would come down with the same disease that afflicted his attackers? Danny recalled Clarke saying something to that effect. If the man was infected could they risk taking him with them, knowing he could turn on any one of them at any moment?

_You're right, Danny. Leave him here so that those things can finish their meal. That's the humanitarian thing to do. _Danny shook himself. _Just get everyone out of here for now. Worry about the rest when you have to. _

"We're going this way," Danny pointed back the way they had come, down a sidewalk now lined with creatures in bloodstained clothing.

Shivers nodded solemnly and stepped forward. He took aim with his carbine and wrapped his finger around the launcher's trigger. Danny could see the young man visibly exhale and heard the soft _whump_ as a 40mm anti-personnel grenade whipped through the air.

The explosive struck the side of a building on the zombies' right. The resulting concussion made Danny flinch as a wave of bricks, glass and concrete swept the creatures out into the street. Smoke rose from the shattered front of the building - what had once been a hardware store. The undead lay in the street now, nothing more than an undecipherable pile of severed limbs and torn flesh.

"Let's go!" Danny took point and charged up the street. As he reached the intersection a pair of pale hands reached out from the corner. He felt the hot breath of sickness brush over his neck sending goosebumps crawling over his skin. He thrust his arm out to the right, felt the barrel of his Sig press against a pale forehead and squeezed the trigger.

Gunfire popped and roared in Danny's ears as he led the way back up the ruined sidewalk, leaping over smoldering debris. Disinterested groans and grunts drifted up from the hungry horde as hot lead ripped through their unfeeling bodies. Every so often Danny was aware of a body falling lifelessly to the asphalt.

Danny whipped his head up to see a zombie wearing the remains of a blood-streaked police uniform come stumble-running up on his right. The badge on its breast still gleamed smartly beneath the street lamps. Black fluid bubbled over the officer's lower lip as it opened its mouth. Danny raised his sidearm and put two through the creature's face.

_I just killed a cop. _It was a preposterous thought. He had only done what he had to. That police officer wasn't a police officer anymore. It would have killed him just as surely as he had killed it - only in a much more unpleasant fashion. Still...Danny couldn't shake the realization. _I just killed a cop! _

"Where the fuck are we going?" Briggs bellowed, catching up to Danny as they cleared the sidewalk and made it back out into the open street. Thorn hung limply between the lieutenant and his sergeant. The pilot's face was a study in pain. The bottom half of his leg looked like a raw piece of steak a Rottweiler had been using for a chew toy.

"There's supposed to be a shelter set up a few blocks away," Danny replied. A light drizzle had begun to fall but he barely noticed. "That's where the rest of my team is along with a few other survivors we ran into."

"You know how many more of those assholes are around here?" Scaggs asked, jerking his head back towards the creatures that had promptly turned face to plod after them, following the smell of fresh meat.

"From what I've seen...a whole goddamn city's worth."

"Awesome." Scaggs grunted.

"Mind telling me what the army's doing here?" Danny asked as he led the way up the next street. They moved as fast as they could. Briggs and Scaggs held Thorn's legs off the ground, probably for added mobility as much as to cause their friend as little pain as possible.

"Time for that later," Briggs said. "First we need to get off these fucking streets and away from whatever the hell those things are. We need to get Thorn's leg looked at too."

"Too bad we lost the fucking corpsman back there," Scaggs spat.

"Yeah, well, looks like things are rough all over, buddy."

"That's the understatement of the year," Gilson said, bringing up the rear with Tucker at his side. "We're about as far into FUBAR territory as you can get, gentlemen."

_You said it. _

Danny panted hard, pushing himself as he wiped the rain out of his eyes. They had made good separation from the creatures on their heels. The bastards might have been dangerous in large groups, with little space to maneouver but once you gained a couple steps on the things they weren't much for distance running. Even so, Danny wanted to get to the school as soon as possible. Who could say how much longer the streets would be clear for?

"Danny, come in," Marty's voice crackled over his radio. "Danny, you there? Hey, Boss, come in already."

"Danny, here," Cobb replied thumbing down the transmit button. "Everything all right, Sheesh?"

"In body, if not mind, Boss. We're all still here. You round up the Green Berets yet?"

"Rangers, Sheesh, and yeah. We got 'em. Some of 'em anyway. What's going on? Did you guys reach the shelter?"

"Oh, we got to the school," Sheesh's laugh sounded distinctly unhappy. "Don't know if I'd really call it a _shelter_ though."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Danny raised an eyebrow but he felt the familiar fingers of dread creeping up his back again.

"Just get here as soon as you can, Boss." Despite the crackling static of the radio, the anxious fright in Sheesh's voice was unmistakable. The fingers tickling Danny's spine began to scratch, digging in cold fingernails. "You'll have to see this to believe it."


	11. Watchdogs

**Chapter Ten: Watchdogs**

After Sarah Waxer's quarantine recommendation had been approved by both the Center For Disease Control and the World Health Organization- which with Umbrella now made up a body known as the Joint Raccoon Syndrome Advisory Committee - one of the first measures instituted by both organizations had been to declare Raccoon City a no-fly zone. No aircraft were permitted within a hundred mile radius of the city's airspace. Nobody in. Nobody out.

Some had found a way around this order. The U.S. government, facing harsh criticism for its lack of response to the growing crisis in the city, had ordered in a detachment of Army Rangers to reinforce the police barricades already set up throughout the city. This order was given despite joint warnings from the CDC and WHO that the situation was too unstable for any personnel to be authorized on the ground in Raccoon.

Unfortunately - both for the soldiers who would be dispatched and the bureaucrats who had tried to prevent their leaving - the no-fly zone existed in name only. It was a barrier that existed as an imaginary line in the sky and a few lines of text on a legal document.

There was no way the American military was going to listen to the cry-baby whining of a bunch of suits who lacked the stones to do something themselves. The Rangers were going in.

Closely around the same time that General Robert Bosa decided to act unilaterally - sending in his boys and the bean counters at the WHO be damned - the Umbrella Corporation was playing a different game at the strategy hearings at the CDC headquarters in Atlanta. Spokespeople for the corporation argued that with no new information coming out of the city, Raccoon had to be considered as having gone "dark". Power could be out. Emergency services crippled. Even the CDCs lead researchers, who might possess the only answers to resolving the outbreak, could be dead by now.

More information was needed, the Umbrella representatives stressed. Beyond that, they raised concerns about the integrity of the quarantine around the city itself. All reports indicated that law enforcement had been depleted by both the virus itself and by the effort of trying to keep the sporadic rioting under control. There was, they said, a zero percent chance that any guarantees could be made about Raccoon staying contained.

"If even one person infected with Raccoon Syndrome were to escape to the highway they could hitch a ride virtually anywhere in the American Midwest," said one Umbrella spokesman. "If this scenario were to happen, then the infection which has devastated Raccoon would spread across the country like an oil slick through the sea. Potentially, we would be faced not with the nightmare of an epidemic but that of a pandemic."

This speech struck a nerve with all those present at the hearings. In only a few short sentences, the man had given voice to the fears each and every member of the committee had shared - silently, secretly - from the first day that the virus had been identified as nothing ever before seen. Raccoon Syndrome going worldwide.

Umbrella had proposed a solution that would, for lack of a better term, kill two birds with one stone. If the WHO and CDC would agree, they could have eighty members of the Umbrella Biohazard Countermeasures Services scout the containment perimeter within the hour and report back about its status. If the internal quarantine had been compromised, as Sarah Waxer's last report indicated, then the U.B.C.S. would establish an external containment zone.

At the same time, U.B.C.S. helicopters would perform flybys over the city to gather data on the state of affairs inside Raccoon. No new information had come out of the city since Doctor Waxer's last report some hours ago. The news media that had been pouring out of the city, reporting a virtual deluge of frenzied violence, had gone silent almost all at once. If the scouting crews determined it was safe enough, then U.B.C.S. personnel would be sent in to assist the efforts of the Army Rangers, who the committee only learned about _after _the Army Black Hawks were in the air.

Between the two forces, Umbrella promised, order could be restored and vital information could once again be broadcast to the committee. If any infected residents had made it through the quarantine then they would be "found and controlled."

No one present, not even CDC Director Stanley Barnes, elected to ask just what the corporations use of the word "controlled" referred to. Perhaps they, like Barnes, already knew. Perhaps they, like Barnes, felt it was better to remain quiet and pretend it meant something else.

All the same, Umbrella had a plan - the CDC and WHO did not. Agencies, even ones as far reaching and powerful as the Center For Disease Control and World Health Organization, are still just collections of people and when people do not know what to do they become scared. Frightened people will listen to anyone who will promise to end their fear and confusion, to restore the natural order of things, to force the world to make sense again.

So it was that the Joint Raccoon Syndrome Advisory Committee came to vote on what became known as the Umbrella Resolution. It passed unanimously.

Permission was gained - officially in the case of the U.B.C.S. and unofficially in the case of the Rangers - for two missions to scout Raccoon City. There was, however, a third mission that did not exist in any of the records possessed by the Joint Raccoon Syndrome Advisory Committee. One that had been in place almost from the moment that the R.P.D. had lost control of their city.

For that matter, this mission - codenamed Operation Watchdog by White Umbrella brass - did not exist in _any _records or documents possessed by _any _organization. Plausible deniability was important for operations carried out by men who were, officially, ghosts and shadows. It was difficult to be a ghost when you had a paper trail chained around your neck.

Operation Commander Ruslan Yuskevich was a man accustomed to working in the shadows. He was used to going unheard, unseen and unnoticed. Yuskevich enjoyed the solace and anonymity of the dark and so he felt perfectly at home as he sat in the co-pilot's seat of the ACSV-Hawkeye, watching the streets of Raccoon through the glow of his scanners.

"What's the signal strength at now?" Yuskevich spoke into his headset mic, his voice lightly tinged with a subtle, Serbian accent. He did this deliberately, feeling it gave his voice character and an a dark air of authority. Yuskevich spoke English fluently along with half a dozen other languages.

"Eighty-percent, sir," the voice of his communication man crackled in the earpiece of his helmet. Corporal Marcus Rennings was one of the few Americans on Yuskevich's team. "All landlines and cell phones are jammed in addition to any dial-up modems. Radio signals will be down as well - they might be able to broadcast locally but there's no way anything's being heard outside the city."

"Is there any device powerful enough to broadcast through the signal?"

"I doubt it, sir," Rennings replied from his position in the rear of the Hawkeye. "Maybe a satellite phone but that'd be it. I don't think anyone in that shithole just happens to have one of those lying around either."

"Boost the signal to one-hundred percent," Yuskevich said after a moment's thought.

"That's a lot of output, sir. If anybody's monitoring the airwaves they might notice the anomaly and start looking for us."

"I'd rather be more cautious about preventing anyone from getting a phone call out than worrying about our scrambler being detected. Don't worry, no one's going to be looking for us, corporal," Yuskevich told his subordinate in a tone that was infinitely patient. "That's why they call this a black op."

Yuskevich knew that Rennings had a point, the Hawkeye's jammer took a great deal of power to spread a net over a city the size of Raccoon thick enough to ensure that not even the smallest signal was permitted to escape. Still, it was extremely unlikely that anyone in the city - if there _was _anyone left in the city - would be looking for the source of interference. Any survivors would almost assuredly blame the problem on the riots, assuming that the city's phone lines and power grid had been compromised in some fashion. Even if there were any paranoid enough to suspect third party subterfuge it was almost impossible that they would possess the technology necessary to detect the presence of the watchful Hawkeye air combat and surveillance vehicle.

Like all White Umbrella initiatives, the Hawkeye had been developed in secret, buried beneath the cover of bureaucratic fog and supported by borderline illegal research. The Hawkeye, for all official intents and purposes, had never been created.

The Hawkeye had been engineered for a situation just like the one that had befallen Raccoon. The corporation had nearly been destroyed after an accidental spill of the T-Virus had turned a town in Prague into a tiny piece of Hell. It had been difficult to contain both the flow of infected and information out of the town. If it hadn't been for a swift and brutal response by the U.B.C.S. - and a crafty story about anthrax woven by the Umbrella spin department - it was entirely possible that the each and every member ever employed by the multinational conglomerate could now be awaiting a trial for crimes against humanity.

Modeled after the U.S. Marine Corps' MV-22 Osprey prototype, the Hawkeye had been intended to reduce such difficulties if any spills were to occur in the future. Designed to "watch, listen and contain", the Hawkeye was outfitted with the latest in spy technology and armaments. High definition cameras, thermal sensors and night-vision imagers ran the length of the Hawkeye's hull, giving it a 360 degree view of the area it surveyed. The vehicle also possessed jamming devices capable of intercepting and blocking signals over three hundred miles away, including e-mails and instant messages.

Yuskevich recalled having heard some of the other B.O.N.E.S. operatives refer to the ACVS as the "Godeye". It was true, there was practically nothing that could escape the notice of the machine's numerous sensors and imaging devices - the magnification of the Hawkeye's high def scopes was powerful enough to view a mouse crawling through the crack of a building wall - but Yuskevich still thought this was a stupid name to give to something that was, essentially, a flying hunk of metal and wires.

When he had first come to America, Yuskevich had been fascinated and more than a little disturbed by its peoples' preoccupation with the notion of a Creator. It was a pathetic idea. There was no place for divinity in this world. Ruslan Yuskevich's entire life was testament enough to that.

If the Hawkeye sported a powerful set of eyes and ears then there was nothing lacking in the size of its fists either. Equipped with dual mini-guns, a pair of 40 inch cannons and two side-door machine guns, the Hawkeye did not need to shy away from a fight.

In addition to its outward arsenal, the Hawkeye also came equipped with an internal armory. Within the personnel cabin where the strike teams waited were banks of lockers stocked with everything from tear gas launchers to M249 light machine guns.

_Of course, firepower is only one kind of strength._

The real advantage offered by the Hawkeye was that it mirrored the nature of the men who stood at its controls. It hid in the darkness, waiting for the right moment, before striking from the shadows. So much of warfare, Yuskevich had learned, was in convincing the enemy that you weren't there, watching him with unblinking eyes.

Unlike the Osprey prototypes that had inspired the Hawkeye's creation, the ACSV was mostly constructed from the same materials as Stealth fighters, reflective plates that made the helicopter impervious to sonar detection. Umbrella engineers had expanded on this metal though and added an element of their own, one that did not just neutralize radar but also _bent light. _The Hawkeye was invisible not only to sonar scanners but also to the naked eye.

Yuskevich wondered sometimes - but not often for such thoughts were frivolous and distracting - just how far Umbrella intended to spread its influence. The corporation possessed more wealth, resources and political clout than any other company on _Earth. _They employed minds that had developed technologies to rival those of even the most modernized militaries. Was it so unreasonable to think that, if they wanted to, Umbrella would be capable of owning the world?

_Not conquering it,_ Yuskevich knew, _that would be too...overt...too apparent for men so used to pulling strings from behind a shadowy curtain. They could own it though. That is the trend isn't it? The new empires will be companies not countries._

The Hawkeye continued to hover above the smoking ruins and shattered landscapes of Raccoon City, circling the city from 30,000 feet like a massive vulture, hidden among the night clouds. Inside the cabin the scanners buzzed and whirred as they streamed video feeds back to the array of screens in front of Yuskevich.

The OC's eyes flashed from monitor to monitor absorbing whatever information was present. Aside from the occasional click and hum of machinery, everything was perfectly quiet. In the personnel cabin two units, each ten men strong, of Biohazard Ordinance Neutralization Elite Squad troopers sat still as statues.

Recruited from the ranks of the U.B.C.S. and military organizations around the world - both public and private - B.O.N.E.S. soldiers were professional killers and none were more efficient than those belonging to Ruslan Yuskevich. Discipline was the value Yuskevich valued most and there was no shortage of that amongst his squads as they sat under the watchful eye of Captain Takimbe Azulu. The towering, scarred, cold-eyed Ugandan was a poor man when it came to the currency of words but all it took was a single flicker in those frigid black eyes of his and even the most unruly trooper fell into line with a rigid salute.

Yuskevich doubted his strike teams would be needed for this op but it never hurt to bring some backup along. One thing the Serb had discovered in his life was that if divinity was a pipe dream then predictability was an outright myth.

_Especially when you work for the men I do. _

Yuskevich _tsked _as he surveyed the pictures coming through over the infrared cameras. "Switch to night-vision," he ordered and Rennings flipped a switch from his station in the back.

One by one the monitors at Yuskevich's control seat changed to show glowing green and black images. Some practically screamed with bright emerald light where fires burned throughout the city. Yuskevich saved his eyes and ignored those screens. What he was really interested in was less dramatic.

_Less_ _dramatic? No. That is a matter of perception. We've just grown used to such sights. _Yuskevich wondered what that said about himself as well as his men that they could become desensitized to scenes like the one playing out so far down below.

The creatures were practically impossible to spot accurately on the thermal sensors. Since their blood no longer circulated they did not generate any body heat. With the assistance of night-vision imaging though, Yuskevich could make out the infected with startling ease. The Hawkeye's name was well earned - it's NV technology was capable of capturing even the smallest particles of light and amplifying them up to one hundred times their normal size.

Zombies, tens of thousands of them, filled the streets. They moved with slow, sloppy steps, blindly bumping into one another without a care. Yuskevich watched as the pitiful creatures stumbled and tripped over fallen trashcans, newspaper boxes and other debris that had found its way onto the asphalt. Yuskevich increased magnification on one of the scopes as movement caught his eye.

Five of the infected had converged around a fire truck that had, ironically, flipped onto its side and crashed through a hydrant. A geyser showered the quintet but none of the carriers would let such a small inconvenience distract them from their meal. They crouched over the body of a man in a gore-spattered firefighter's jacket and overalls, tearing thick wads of flesh from the corpse's abdomen and neck.

Three bloodstained figures in street clothes - two men and one woman - were splayed on the ground near the infected and their dinner. All were covered in a variety of what looked like stab wounds, the skulls of both men were caved in and the women's neck hung on by a stringy tendon. It took only a second for Yuskevich to spot the axe that lay just out of the fireman's reach.

_Ah. Tough luck, friend. _

"Rennings," Yuskevich said, "give me an ETA on the U.B.C.S. transports."

"ETA," Rennings paused in the back, no doubt checking his own screens as he listened to the transmissions coming over the U.B.C.S. frequency. "Thirty minutes, sir."

Yuskevich nodded. "Patch through to HQ. Inform Director Waters that the city is approximately ninety percent infected now. T-carriers have overrun the city but the number of other B. is currently unknown. Nearly all police barricades have been compromised."

Even without the blockades Yuskevich knew there was little chance that any of the virus carriers would escape the boundaries of the city anytime soon. Even if his estimate was correct a ninety percent infection rate meant there still had to be _some _survivors left within Raccoon. Survivors meant a food source and so long as there was a food source present, the carriers would have no reason to venture far outside of the city limits in search of prey.

Yuskevich knew that knowledge of the Tyrant Virus made many of his colleagues uncomfortable. The thought that a man could be reduced to nothing but a debased, mindless monster, concerned only with satisfying the primal need to feed left even the hardest B.O.N.E.S veterans puzzling over the fragility of their humanity.

Yuskevich, however, remained unfazed. Humanity was not fragile, it _was _primal. Mankind was just another animal and like all animals he was driven by instinct. It was no one's fault that those instincts often happened to be base and impure. That was just how nature worked.

His headset clicked as Rennings switched channels to communicate with headquarters. After a moment, the corporal clicked back.

"Waters wants to know what the mission conditions are for Operation Watchdog, sir."

_Mission conditions? _If Yuskevich had possessed a sense of humor - which he did not - he would have chuckled. _An entire city swimming with undead and who knows how many more of the genetically advanced virus carriers. Including at least two of the Tyrant series._

_ No support. No communication. No way out. No hope of survival. _

"Tell him," Yuskevich said, "that the conditions are optimal."

When he had received his briefing for this op, Yuskevich had been told that Watchdog would be an evolving mission. Essentially that meant that the parameters and objectives of the operation could and would change from hour to hour or even minute to minute.

Yuskevich had been receiving his orders directly from the Director of Paramilitary Operations himself, Ronald Waters. At first, Waters had informed the major that his goal was to simply observe the situation in Raccoon and provide regular status reports. Once all hell had broken loose and the infected started to flood the streets, spreading the virus with every bite and scratch, Waters had told Yuskevich to begin scrambling all outbound transmissions from the city.

Only hours after the jamming signal had gone up, Director Waters had called Yuskevich over an encrypted channel. The conversation the two men shared had been quick, blunt and dry. Facts were discussed, confirmed and understood. Just like that, Ruslan Yuskevich was one of only a few to learn the full scope of the newest phase of Operation Watchdog.

U.B.C.S. soldiers would be heading into the city under the guise of staging rescue missions and assisting a detachment of Army Rangers in helping local law enforcement restore civil order. Of the eight squads being dispatched, only eight men - one per squad - knew the truth. At least, they thought they did.

These elite eight had been designated mission supervisors by command and all had received briefings separate of the others regarding the goals of Operation Watchdog. These men were to abandon their units at the first possible opportunity and monitor them from a safe distance. Each supervisor had been given a micro-computer capable of uploading data over a secure channel outside the interference of the Hawkeye's jamming signal. They would gather as much combat data as possible - including squad strength, number and type of B. engaged as well as the general performance of either side - then report to the clock tower outside City Hall for extraction.

Each supervisor had been hand selected from the U.B.C.S. based on their extensive psychological profiles. These eight, these _Watchdogs, _were the worst human beings possible - which made them the best men for such a task. They were borderline sociopaths. They suffered no empathy nor bouts of conscience. Not a one of them was burdened by the bonds of emotion or loyalty.

What these men - who thought they knew so much - were not aware of was the fact that there was to be no extraction. Not at the clock tower, not anywhere else for that matter. The dedicated server they had been told they would be uploading their data to actually rested in the cockpit of Yuskevich's Hawkeye. Once command had determined he had collected enough information from the supervisors, Yuskevich would simply fly away and radio in with a sterilization recommendation.

_Watchdogs? _Yuskevich snorted. _More like lab rats. _

Just what that sterilization measure would be, Yuskevich could not say. Whatever it was, it would have to involve enough heavy ordinance to wipe Raccoon City off the map. A few two thousand pound bombs ought to do the trick but Yuskevich did not think this would be the preferred course of action for his superiors. It left the potential, albeit a small one, for loose ends.

_No, Umbrella is too cautious, too paranoid, to risk anything being left behind. A nuclear strike is much more likely. One tactical blast and everything here will be swept clean. _

Of course, resourceful as the corporation was even they did not possess nuclear weaponry. If a missile was going to be launched against Raccoon it would take nothing short of Presidential consent to see it done. That would not be as difficult as it sounds.

_Not when the government learns that its own special forces were unable to contain this nightmare. Not when they've already seen the horrors that this virus can unleash. They'll take a little bit of pushing but in the end they'll see that it's the only way and this place will disappear, carrying the truth with it. _

How long it would take for a tactical strike to be ordered, Yuskevich did not know. That was entirely up to how much data command felt it was necessary to obtain and how the soldiers - the lab rats - performed. Truthfully, to both Yuskevich and his men, it did not matter.

Alternating, propeller-turbines kept the Hawkeye aloft and the low-impact, low-buffeting design of the rotors ensured that the ACSV generated almost no noise. Its extended fuel tanks meant that the Hawkeye could hover in place for days, even a week.

Yuskevich had his orders. He was prepared to stay as long as it took.

"We have green light authorization," Rennings said in the back, speaking over a common channel now so that Captain Azulu and the rest of the B.O.N.E.S. troopers could hear as well. "Operation Watchdog is a go. Repeat, Operation Watchdog is a go."

Yuskevich turned his eyes up to the night vision monitors. He watched as three more of the desiccated, blood-smeared virus carriers joined their companions to feast on the firefighter. Briefly, the major thought about the helicopters filled with U.B.C.S. soldiers that were speeding towards this necropolis.

He found that he felt no pity for those men whose fates had already been sealed. Nor did he feel any sympathy or guilt. Yuskevich wondered if he should see this as strange. It had been a long time since he had felt much of anything, after all.

Ruslan Yuskevich had been born in Belgrade, a city where it was hard to earn a living even for those who had money and Ruslan's family had none. His father had been a violent drunk and his mother had served almost solely as an outlet for that violence. When he was six, on a warm summer day when most boys his age would have been out playing football, Ruslan was at home, watching papa beat his mother to death. Later that night, papa had gone upstairs, removed his pistol from its place on the top shelf of his closet, stuck the barrel in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

After the death of his parents, young Ruslan had traveled from orphanage, to state sponsored halfway homes and back again. He had been shipped all over the city like a parcel that no one was willing to collect.

That all stopped when Ruslan turned sixteen. He was kicked out of the most recent orphanage he had been transferred to after putting two older boys into the hospital for trying to steal his jacket. If there was only one thing he had learned from his father it was how to hit someone so that they didn't get back up again.

Surviving the streets of Belgrade had not been easy but young Ruslan had been resourceful even in his youth. He had known what to do to get by and, more important than that, hadn't been afraid to do it. Ruslan had stolen, conned, grifted and manipulated to make sure he had enough to ate, a place to sleep and some money in his pocket.

At eighteen, he killed his first man. It was winter and Ruslan had been extremely cold. His victim had been wearing boots. Ruslan had been wearing none.

When he turned nineteen, Ruslan found himself working for some of the various organized crime elements within the city. He did their dirty work for them. Ruslan intimidated, extorted and murdered - things he had already been doing for years. He remembered how good it felt the first time he had gotten paid to do such things, though.

Ruslan had tired playing the workman for the criminal families after a couple of years. He had learned in his time dodging Belgrade law enforcement that, more often than not, the police were more crooked than the men they pursued. The main difference though - the one that had enticed Ruslan - had been the fact that when you enforced the laws, no one came after you for breaking them.

On his twenty-third birthday, Ruslan had joined the Belgrade police. It had been the easiest transition of his life. He intimidated, extorted and murdered. The pay had been less than what he made playing gopher for the mob but the power that had come with a badge had more than made up for that.

From the police it had been a short jump to the army. Yuskevich's mixture of fearless ruthlessness had put him on the radar of his commanders and he had fast-tracked to officer. It was then that he understood the power that came with a badge was a mere whispered compared to what could be gained when a man donned a uniform that gave him command over a couple hundred soldiers bearing assault rifles.

Yuskevich had always been seen as a good soldier himself, a reliable commander but it hadn't been until the war came that he had truly distinguished himself. His men had filled more graves than any others. His company had killed more Croats - exterminated more _vermin _- than any other. He had been decorated by Milosevic himself for his efficiency, bravery and dedication to his country.

Yuskevich still had those medals - somewhere. He could not recall exactly. He had never put much stock in military decorations. They were silly things that fools cherished.

He had not killed because it brought him any pleasure. He had not killed because he had loved the great nation of Serbia. He loathed the Croat scum but that was not why he had forced them to line up before the trenches nor why he had ordered his men to open fire as they knelt before the chasm that would be their final resting place. No, he had done so because orders were orders. A mission had to be completed - whatever the cost.

_That is true loyalty. A soldier's loyalty. _Yuskevich held this truth as perhaps the only thing he could ever know to be completely correct, above all other knowledge. _Not dedication to his comrades, not loyalty to his men. No, it is loyalty to his _mission.

Sometimes he thought it was this mentality that had led him to Umbrella. They understood what it meant to see a task through to its end - no matter how bitter that end was. They knew what it took to be the bully on the block, to rise above the rest and leave their stamp on the world.

_Even now, they have no fear. They are not scrambling for cover, preparing lies to mask their deeds. Instead, they are moving pieces into place, enacting a plan to turn a disaster into an opportunity. _

That was the mark of a true man. One who made his own opportunities. One who forced fortune, not waiting for it to fall into his lap. If Yuskevich had waited for his opportunities he would have been rounded up with the others by the UN and paraded before their kangaroo courts at the Hague.

When the writing was on the wall that the war would not end in the favor of those who had fought on the side of Milosevic, Yuskevich had used his contacts to change his name, forge new passports and falsify his identity as much as possible. This last task proved the most difficult to accomplish as a grenade blast had badly disfigured the right side of Yuskevich's face, leaving it a mangle mass of pocked, triangular scars. Nevertheless, Yuskevich had made it through the checkpoints without incident and immigrated to the States.

He had arrived with little more than the clothes on his back. His only contact had been a cousin that Yuskevich hadn't spoken to in nearly a decade but family was family after all and Oscar had only been too happy to help out his cousin.

As it turned out, Oscar had just been dismissed from his last job with a private military contractor and happened to be looking for work as well. He told Yuskevich that the Umbrella Corporation was recruiting for its own security forces. Apparently the Umbrella Biohazard Countermeasures Services needed a few men just like them. From there, it had been a short jump before Ruslan Yuskevich found himself among the ranks of the B.O.N.E.S. command.

In the few years since making that jump Yuskevich had seen things that any sane man would have thought of as impossible, unimaginable. He had personally born witness to human experimentation, bonafide mad scientists, and real, live monsters.

Yet none of it had surprised Yuskevich - not for one second. The war - no, his entire existence - had taught the major to fully understand the depths of human depravity and greed. None of it was remarkable to Yuskevich, none of it seemed extraordinary or nightmarish. It was only business as usual.

_Just like it is now. And it's time to get paid. _

The sound of approaching rotors chopping through the air filled the major's headset. The U.B.C.S. were on their way. Yuskevich turned his attention back to the screens and waited for the killing to start.


	12. Static

**Chapter Eleven: Static**

"C'mon. _C'mon._"

Snowy lines of grey and white crawled across the screen of the VI-COMM. Sarah stabbed at the keys, inputting commands to no effect. Her frustrated hiss was mimicked and mocked by that of the electronic blizzard.

"What's the problem?" Homer asked across from her. He rose from his seat in the booth to slide in next to her and take a look at the screen himself.

"I can't get a signal," Sarah growled as she turned over control of the VI-COMM to her partner's scrutiny.

"Uh, hello. Where have you guys been?" The voice belonged to Tommy Chan. The rat-faced reporter sat on the floor with his back against the bar counter and his legs stretched out like he owned the place. In one hand he held a bottle of wine he'd uncorked with his teeth. It'd been less than twenty minutes and the photographer had already drained half of its contents. "Cell phones have been down for hours. The grid's probably still jammed...if it's even functioning anymore at all."

Sighing, Sarah tucked her bangs back for no other reason than to occupy her hands with an activity other than throttling Tommy. She scowled across at him and took a deep breath to keep from spouting out a torrent of obscenities.

"Thank you, Tommy, that's extremely helpful information." Her words were friendly but there was nothing amiable about the virologist's tone. "Now allow me to share something with _you. _This is _not _a cell phone. This is a two million dollar piece of state of the art communications uplink that uses satellite technology to provide real time video-conferencing anywhere in the _world. _Even if the cell grid were erased from the face of the Earth I should still be able to use this nifty device here to contact my bosses in Atlanta!"

"Maybe but it's a two million dollar brick right now." It was Homer's turn to sigh. "The uplink is totally fried for all intents and purposes. You sure it wasn't damaged when the MRRU flipped?" He punched at a couple keys but just grunted as the static hail continued unabated.

"It was working fine until two minutes ago," Sarah replied. "I put in my password and it started to transmit the signal when it went all White Christmas on me."

"So we've got no way to find out what's being done to save our butts, is what you're saying?" Hargreaves rose from the chair he'd set up by the front door and started to pace. "Awesome."

Thumbing down the power button, Sarah rebooted the VI-COMM. When the screen flickered back to life all she got this time was an error message. It read: NO SATELLITE DETECTED. CANNOT ESTABLISH UPLINK.

_Give me a break. _

"I'm _really _starting to hate this place, Homes." She slammed the lid of the VI-COMM shut and fought off the urge to chuck it through the window.

"Maybe this isn't so bad," Tommy said after downing another mouthful of wine. "It'll give us a chance to work some things out for ourselves."

"Some things like what?" Homer asked with a raised eyebrow.

"_Gee, _I don't know." Tommy rolled his eyes skyward. "How about like, hmm, figuring out just _what the fuck _is going on in this city? I'd love it if one of you eggheads could offer up some ideas about what the hell those fucking gorilla-_things _were that jumped us and turned your armored car into a crumpled tin can. Isn't that why you two got called here? To come up with a solution to this whole goddamn mess?"

It was an accusation more than a question and the barb didn't fail to sting Sarah. She stared at Tommy, saw the anger and resentment standing there plain and pure in his eyes. They demanded an answer to why she hadn't saved the city yet; To why she had allowed this descent into mad anarchy.

_And I've got no answers to give him. _Sarah looked away. She said nothing.

"It's not quite that simple, Tommy," Homer shot back. "In the few weeks we've been here Sarah and I have seen things that _nobody _in the scientific community ever thought were even _possible. _So, you'll have to forgive us if we're feeling a little overwhelmed as well."

"Fair enough," Hargreaves stopped pacing to face the two researchers, "but the sleazeball does raise a good question. What the hell were those things?"

Homer took off his glasses and rubbed at red-rimmed eyes. "I don't know," the old scientist grunted. "The first question you'd have to ask yourself is whether they were, originally, human or animal but regardless they've clearly undergone some...extreme mutations."

"Could the virus have done that?" Hargreaves asked.

"It's possible - more than likely, in fact, given that we'd be hard-pressed to come up with another plausible explanation. We've already seen that RS can cause drastic changes in the make-up of human brain chemistry and physiology but nothing quite as apparent as whatever had taken place in...in...whatever those creatures used to be."

"I'm sensing another _but _in there, doc."

"_But,_" Homer admitted as he put his glasses back in place, "we haven't seen anything yet that would indicate RS is capable of causing such changes to a host. It may take longer to take hold of its victims based on their metabolic rates - as Sarah has theorized - but once it does, it seems to affect hosts in almost a universal fashion."

"Meaning it just makes people act like monsters not _look _like monsters," Tommy summarized and took another swig of Merlot. "Peachy."

"I don't know about you," Hargreaves spat at the photographer, "but a bunch of decaying cannibals look pretty fucking freaky to _me._"

"It's RS," Sarah said quietly, "it has to be."

"I agree," Homer sighed, "but, Sarah, we haven't seen anything that would indicate the syndrome can -"

"Yes, we have," she said, looking up suddenly. "Think about it, Homes. Anytime we tried to treat the damn bug - with antibiotics, with anti-retrovirals, with heat and cold - it _adapted _to the foreign matter. It changed it's coding, it's DNA to survive. That's a pretty radical mutation don't you think?"

"It's one thing for a virus to change its own DNA to thrive within a host - that's fundamentally how HIV works - but it's another animal entirely for it to change the DNA of its _host _to the point where it resembles some kind of lizard-man...or whatever the hell those things out there were!"

_Which should tell you something about just what we're dealing with here, Homes. Something that's got my guts in a knot._

"Exactly," Sarah didn't miss a beat, she locked eyes with her partner. "That kind of change could be brought on through gene-therapy, it'd be impossible for that drastic of a genetic change to occur naturally - at least, without a couple million more years of evolution. Still, the RS virus could act as the agent for that kind of change - the catalyst - it has to be. How else do you explain monsters popping out from under every rock in this place?"

"Gene-therapy?" Homer's brows crawled up so high that Sarah thought they might roll onto the back of his skull. "Sarah...think about what you're saying. The amount of time, money and equipment you'd need to re-write a subject's DNA - human _or _animal - that dramatically without _killing _them outright would be astronomical."

_I know...which is why I'm feeling like I'm ready to hurl. _

"Which means...if I'm right...it would have to be man made. Manufactured."

Homer just stared. He opened his mouth but no words came forth. His jaw clicked as his lips worked soundlessly.

"Hang on," Hargreaves interjected, "let's put the car in reverse for a second here, doc. I may never have got further than tenth grade chemistry class but you're saying someone _made _this shit? You mean, like, terrorists? I thought you said before that you thought they contracted the virus working in the sewers?"

"I said it was possible," Sarah replied, "but that was before the other...evidence we just encountered first hand."

_The kind of evidence that tries to sink its teeth into you. _Sarah continued after a second.

"It still is possible that the disease was originally contracted in the sewers - if it _was _an act of terrorism it's not too far of a stretch that they might have tried to attack the city's water supply and used the sewage treatment plants as a vector but I doubt it."

"Why's that?" Hargreaves asked with a raised brow.

"Because we would have seen more cases of infection during the initial outbreak that we couldn't trace back to contact with another carrier. Besides, I'm pretty sure everyone of us in this room has had a drink or shower since this nightmare began." Sarah looked around at the three men. Each had gone exceptionally pale but none shook their head. "Exactly. So either we're miracles of science and all just happen to be immune or the disease was never put directly into the water supply."

"Okay, so it's not terrorists," Homer said. "If you're still suggesting that someone cooked this bug up then -"

"There's...one other possibility." Sarah held up a finger to cut her partner off mid-sentence before he could jump the gun on her. "If it _is _synthetic, if it _is _man made, then we could be looking at the possibility of a spill. This whole catastrophe could just be - like so many catastrophes are - one big, _seriously _fucked up, accident."

_That's what's got my stomach doing backflips off the diving board. _Sarah dropped her gaze as she saw three sets of eyes widen. _The thought that someone - no, _someones _- could brew up something as deadly and horrific as RS _and _let it get out of control in a population the size of Raccoon City is just...well..._

Sarah had to swallow back a rush of bile. One thing Doctor Waxer had never been ashamed to admit was that she was a prideful girl - had to be to survive as a child prodigy trying to make a name for herself as a serious researcher. As such, there was little Sarah detested more than being proven wrong...but oh, how she was praying for that now.

"Sarah..." Homer began hesitantly, "I don't think that's possible."

"Why not?" She spread her hands. "You said yourself that the kind of mutation we saw from those _things _that ripped the MRRU apart doesn't look like anything that RS should be capable of - but what else could it be? Those...those _zombies _are monsters too - they're a form of mutation as well and a pretty damn severe one at that."

"Agreed," Homer sighed starting to sound irritated, "but the virus had the same effect on all of them. It didn't give them scales and claws and fangs! We'd need samples to run tests on to even prove that they were infected with RS - let alone a genetically manipulated strain."

"Come _on, _Homes," Sarah rolled her eyes. "We're in a city crawling with ghasts and ghouls - how many killer viruses do you think are running rampant in this city? It _has _to be the syndrome. If it looks like a monster, walks like a monster and _eats _like a monster then odds are it's got a bad case of RS."

"Fine, let's suppose your right," Homer conceded as Tommy and Hargreaves looked on with the expressions of students who had become lost during a classroom lecture. "Let's say that it is RS. For all we know, it could be a natural mutation of the virus itself. We see that all the time with influenza. Different strains of the flu show up all the time, that's why there's so many different vaccines for it. This could just be the next step of the virus' evolution. We can't jump to the conclusion that it's been _manufactured_ based on one instance."

"Way to downplay the experience, pal." Tommy snapped from where he lounged. "If you didn't notice that _one instance _had a bunch of lizard-gorilla-men trying to _eat us._" He took a long guzzle of wine and muttered, "Just like everything else in this fucking city."

"Microbe evolution can take _years, _Homes." Sarah ignored the little weasel's observations. In the back of her mind, she hoped he choked on the Merlot. "Raccoon Syndrome has been around in the form we know of for what? A month? That kind of a jump in its structure and the way it effects hosts would be lightyear leap. It has to be a manipulated form of RS.

"Don't give me that look. I'm not preaching science-fiction here, partner. If you're a halfway competent genetic engineer you could design a virus to infect only blondes or people with green eyes. Our genetic code leaves a lot of doors and windows open to the sick puppies out there who want to throw a wrench in the works."

Homer pressed his hands flat across the table. "Just what are you getting at, Sarah?"

She sighed. "I'm not saying that these people were kidnapped, experimented on and then released to wreak havoc on the city by some mad scientist hell bent on destroying the world."

_Although, _she realized, _Right now I could believe just about anything. _

"What I _am _saying," she went on, "is that it's possible there could be strains of RS that _we _haven't seen yet that have been engineered to effect different hosts in different ways. The virus enters the victim's bloodstream and then goes through a checklist. If it finds certain factors are present or absent it causes the...zombie effect...if it's a modified strain though then maybe when it runs that checklist it looks for something else and if it finds them...then it takes a more dramatic turn."

"Why would anybody try and make something as horrible as this?" Hargreaves muttered and resumed pacing again.

"Wake up, Harold," Tommy chuckled though is laughter was devoid of any humor. "Biological warfare is big business. I've seen reports that the government has 'superbugs' just sitting on ice in military research freezers. Diseases that are virtually untreatable. Granted, whatever we're dealing with here probably makes those things look like child's play."

"That's one possibility," Sarah nodded, "though I'm not sure that something like RS was originally intended to be weaponized."

"No?" Hargreaves snorted. "I don't know about you, doc, but seems to me like everything that comes down with this shit winds up trying to kill you. Sounds like a pretty effective weapon to me."

Homer nodded. "Just imagine a putting a drop of this stuff into a population like New York's or London's. How many people live - _lived _- in Raccoon? One hundred thousand? Now try a number ten times that size. It'd move so fast, cripple authorities to the point where a quarantine might not even be possible."

"Fuck," Hargreaves sighed, sinking back into his chair.

"But look at what RS does," Sarah said. "It changes the DNA of its host, bringing on radical mutations. What if that's not the point of the virus though? What if that's just a side-effect?"

Homer quirked an eyebrow. "What do you mean? If I'm to follow your theory about this thing being the work of genetic and virological engineering then you're saying you think the syndrome was designed for practical use? The way Botox is used to treat wrinkles, say?"

"Sure, why not?" Sarah said, gaining energy as she could sense Homer was starting to get on the trolley with her. "Only on a way higher level. We know that RS can change its own genetic coding and seems to do be able to do the same to the coding of its host. If you could control that process, master it, you'd have -"

"A God virus," Homer said with a soft exhalation. There were equal parts awe and fear in his voice. Equal parts of the same in his eyes.

"A _what_?" Tommy asked as he struggled up onto unsteady legs. Sarah caught a flash from his belt as the one light they had allowed themselves played off the steel stuffed in the photographer's waistband. Sarah had cautioned Tommy against shoving the kitchen knife down his pants if he was going to drink but the bastard had just laughed her off and said "Thanks for the advice, _Mom_, but I'm not going anywhere without something to defend myself."

_Fine by me, _Sarah thought now as she had thought then, _if he wants to cut his pecker off that's his business. Who am I kidding? The thing's probably so damn small he wouldn't even get nicked._

"A God virus," Homer repeated. "One of the holy grails of microbiology."

"Think of it like the fountain of youth," Sarah explained, "whatever's ailing you - cancer, blindness, heart failure, even good ol' Father Time - you get a dose of the God virus and you're good as new again.

"The idea is that the virus re-works your DNA - the same way RS appears to but with a butt-load more control. If it were possible, such a compound could be reworked to treat virtually _any _type of disease or injury. It could be used to regrow limbs, activate stem cells to cure paralysis and who knows what else. You could cure Parkinson's, MS, _every _cancer in the book. Not to mention _erase _genetic disorders. Children would no longer have to be shackled to the same illnesses as their parents."

"It'd be like a time machine for your cells," Homer said picking up the analogy train. "The moment you developed anything from a case of the sniffles to melanoma all your family doctor would need to do is give you a shot of the virus and it would literally turn back your biological clock. Your body would be...rejuvenated for lack of a better word. Restored to its normal balance."

"You're talking about immortality, doc," Hargreaves observed with a skeptical grunt.

"Hell yes, we are!" Sarah exclaimed. "It's the ultimate quest of medical science, isn't it? Medicine is all about prolonging life and there'd be no better medicine than something that keeps you alive forever. There'd be big bucks in research grants _alone _for anyone who even came close to developing something along those lines."

"Seems like pretty good incentive to take some risks if you thought you were on the right track," Homer said slowly and Sarah nodded. Old Homes was definitely standing on the trolley with her now.

"I'm sorry, are we actually talking about the same thing here?" Tommy asked as he set aside his apparently empty bottle of wine and staggered over to the booth where the two CDC researchers sat.

_Lightweight, _Sarah observed with a scornful glance.

"Unless I'm mistaken this so called _God virus _isn't eliminating death and disease - _it's the fucking cause of it!" _Tommy slammed his hands down on the tabletop, making Sarah jump. "This thing you're all so revved up about is turning people into honest to God _monsters! _Monsters that are out there right now eating people and ripping this fucking city apart!" He laughed and shook his head. "The two of you are here getting hard-ons about a goddamn theory when the reality is right outside that door waiting to pounce on us!"

"Sit down," Hargreaves growled as he stomped over and shoved the Tommy back a step. The photographer gave security guard a withering look but decided not to press the issue. Scowling, Tommy leaned against a table and crossed his arms.

It pained Sarah to admit it but the paparazzo leech did have a point. She _was _excited. Raccoon Syndrome simultaneously thrilled and terrified her. The virus was something completely unique, completely mystifying and she had been given the chance to study it under _her _microscope.

_So much for that though. All our samples were locked up in the MRRU's freezer. Not much hope of ever seeing those babies again. _

Sarah felt a sudden pang of guilt. The virus that she found so fascinating had brought an entire city to its knees. It had robbed nearly an entire population of their lives or, worse yet, their humanity. It was a viral strain that had the potential to devastate the planet...and here she was thinking of it like a toy to be played with, a puzzle to be figured out.

_How many people has that puzzle killed? How many has it transformed into flesh-eating horrors out of a madman's worst nightmares? _She shook her head. She wanted to crawl into a warm bed and fall asleep for ten years. _How many lives have been completely destroyed...because I couldn't fit the pieces of that puzzle together. _

_ This is my fault. I'm supposed to be the girl genius. I'm supposed to be the lead researcher. I'm supposed to be the damned savior...but here I am, hiding in the dark in a cafe praying that the people I couldn't save don't knock down the door looking to have me for lunch. _

Anger, hot and intense, flared in Sarah's heart. It made her chest tight and stomach clench. She dug her fingernails into her palms. She _hated _feeling this helpless...this...this _futile! _

_I can figure this out - I know I can! I just need more time. _And a laboratory, access to every RS patient's medical records, a working satellite phone and about two dozen other things she didn't have.

Sarah wanted to cry but her eyes were too sore and tired to form any tears. She was grateful for it. _If I get started I might never stop. _

"Look, docs," Hargreaves was saying, "far be it for me to question anybody with a degree in subjects I probably can't even pronounce but aren't we reaching a bit here? I mean, it would take tons of money and some serious hardware to produce something like the crap that's running around here, right? I don't think you could keep an operation like that under wraps for very long."

"Not to mention Raccoon City is pretty much Anytown, U.S.A." Tommy muttered into his chest, just loud enough to be heard. "This isn't exactly the place to set up a secret viral weaponry lab."

"No cover like hiding in plain sight," Homer said.

"I never said the theory was perfect," Sarah sighed. The discussion was beginning to wear on her. Her brain was too exhausted, her stomach too empty, to keep trying to sort through facts she just didn't possess. "I just said it was a theory. The truth is there's still too much going on here that we don't know."

"Ain't that the truth," Hargreaves mumbled, shaking his head.

"That your excuse?" Tommy sneered uncrossing his arms and leaning forward over the table again. His eyes were daggers as he met Sarah's unblinking gaze. "You 'just didn't know'? Isn't that why the CDC sent you - because you _should _know? Ignorance is a pretty crappy excuse, Doctor Waxer, especially for someone in _your _position."

"Tommy," Homer growled, standing up, "back off."

"Fuck you," the photographer spat, quickly snapping back to Sarah's impassive face. She thought she could see the light glint off the edge in his eyes. "I did some digging into your background, Sarah. I know that you graduated top of your class from university when you were just eighteen. You've got more degrees in your office than I have dollars in the bank. You're the youngest field researcher the CDC employs. In my book that makes you a pretty big hotshot. So if a _hotshot _like you doesn't know how to deal with this virus then who _the fuck _does?"

Sarah's hand shot out. She grabbed Tommy by the throat, digging her fingers into his windpipe. The photographer's beady eyes nearly popped clean out of his skull. Sarah squeezed and his startled gasp turned into a thick choking sound. She stood up slowly and pulled his rapidly purpling face close.

"_I. Don't. Know." _She hissed and gave the slimy rat a shake. "Is that what you want to hear Tommy? Well, there you have it. I don't know how to fix this. For the first time in my life I _don't know _ what to do? So why don't you just stuff your attitude up your ass already? You can try and bully me all you want but there's no way in hell you can make me feel any worse than I already do."

Giving his neck a final pinch, Sarah shoved the sputtering photojournalist away. He coughed and gagged as he rubbed at his neck, no doubt trying to get some feeling back in his larynx. He spat out a glob of phlegm and looked over at Sarah as if he were a puppy she'd just kicked.

"_Jesus," _he gasped, his voice suddenly mirroring that of a man who had spent the last twenty years sucking on a cigarette everyday. "I didn't meant anything by it." He paused to hack and spit out more phlegm. "I was just saying. Jeez."

Thinking about what a sorry excuse for skin Tommy Chan was, Sarah opened her mouth to tell him that the next words he spoke would be his last so he better choose them carefully - but stopped when something heavy rattled the ceiling. She felt the men around her stiffen and look upwards. Hargreaves' hand strayed to the butt of his weapon.

Until she heard that noise Sarah hadn't realized she had grown used to the sound of the creature's outside clawing at the front door. As far as she could tell most of the crowd outside had thinned - seemed even the zombies got the message that the door wasn't opening anytime soon and it would be a better use of their energies to go find an easier meal somewhere else. Still, there was the occasional brush or bang against the wood but Sarah had managed to drown that out before too long.

_I just told myself it was the wind. _She stood up, slowly easing out of her seat as she craned her neck upwards. _I even started to believe it. It was either that or go nuts thinking about what was trying to get in. _

The noise repeated itself but remained vague, difficult to detect. It sounded like a metallic tapping followed by a soft _thud. _The unfamiliarity of that sound pushed Sarah's heart into overdrive. She traded looks with Homer and saw sweat beading along his wrinkled forehead.

"The hell is that?" Tommy asked, doing a quick spin as he tried to look in every direction at once. Sarah could still smell the alcohol on his breath.

_Tingtingtingting. Thud. _

"It's coming from the vents," Hargreaves replied slowly, nodding towards the aluminum pipes running across the cafe's ceiling. He slid his pistol free of its holster.

_Tingtingting. Thud. _

"So start shooting!" Tommy yelped.

"I don't know which one it's coming from," Hargreaves grunted, raising pointing his handgun from one vent shaft to the next.

"Who cares!"

_Tingtingtingtingting._

"Wait!" Homer shouted, pulling Sarah out of the booth and pushing her behind him. "We don't even know that's one of the infected. They could just be another survivor!"

"No offense, doc," Hargreaves said, thumbing the safety off, "but I'd rather not take the chance and find out that it's not."

"Then shoot first and ask questions later for fuck's sake!" Tommy was nearly jumping up and down now, perspiration dripping out of his gelled hair and onto his face.

_Tingtingtingtingting - _

Gunshots cut the noise short. Sarah cringed and clamped her hands over her ears. The pistol reports sounded like deafening cracks of lighting in the small confines of the cafe. Hargreaves peppered the vents with a flurry of bullets, leaving six smoking holes scattered through the pipes crisscrossing the ceiling.

The sound stopped. Sarah felt her three companions holding their breath. She felt _herself _holding her breath.

"Think you got it?" Tommy asked, looking over at Hargreaves.

The other man snorted. "Beats the shit out of me but I -"

One of the grates covering the piping came crashing down. Sarah jumped and swallowed a scream as a jolt of sudden terror tore up her spine. That scream worked its way back up out of her stomach and past her lips when a long, dark shape landed on top of the warped grate and _hissed. _

A pungent chemical reek followed the creature out of the shaft. The odor made Sarah think of ammonia, sulfur and congealed blood. Next to her, Tommy clamped a hand over his mouth and staggered back.

Black, sightless eyes peered out of dark sockets set into the ridge of a face that possessed no skull, leaving the soft grey matter of the thing's brain exposed. Yellow fangs dripped saliva from the pit of a wide mouth that gave the creature a permanent, ghastly grin.

A skull wasn't the only piece of anatomy the creature lacked. It was entirely without skin, the red sinewy and bone of its long, muscular body leaving trails of some nameless slime across the floor where it had landed. Talons longer than the blade of Tommy's kitchen knife dug into the wooden floor as the - what? Animal? Mutant? Monster? - stretched out, low too the ground in a predator's pose. It _hissed _again.

"Oh my_ God," _Homer muttered, eyes wide and body trembling as he slowly backed up towards the far end of the restaurant.

Whatever it was the creature as no zombie. Nor did it even remotely resemble the lizard-gorilla _things _that had derailed the MRRU. There was nothing manlike about this new creature. It appeared entirely animalistic to Sarah.

_No, _she realized, too shocked to feel any real fear though she found her feet suddenly rooted to the floor. _Not animalistic. Demonic. _

"Fuck it!" Hargreaves yelled and raised his pistol.

The demon _screamed, _a piercing shriek that Sarah thought was probably only a few decibels short of shattering the empty wine bottle Tommy had left on the bar counter. Its massive jaws split and a long, pink serpent's tongue shot from its mouth. The forked organ knifed through the ten feet of open space separating it from the Umbrella guard and coiled around his leg like a wet rope.

Hargreaves swore and then he was falling backwards as the creature snapped its head to one side, jerking the floor out from under Hargreaves' feet. His head clapped the floor and the gun jumped out of his fingers. He let out a cry that was part disgust and part horror as the demon began to drag him across the hardwood.

The sound of that strangled shout pulled Sarah's mind began into her body and she found that she could move again. She grabbed Tommy - who was already moving towards the kitchen doors - and, without a thought for sparing his junk, ripped the knife free from his pants. She felt him stiffen, heard him gasp, but by then she was already pushing him away, moving towards Hargreaves as he struggled to untangle his leg.

Without really thinking Sarah fell next to the burly security guard and brought the knife down. She slashed at the thick, pink mass of the demon's tongue. Blood squirted from the muscle as she hacked and stabbed at the squirming coil. The thing continue to _hiss _ and squeal with displeasure. Her fifth panicked cut tore the tongue in half and the beast's roar made her cringe worse than the sound of Hargreaves' pistol going off next to her head had.

Kicking his leg free, Hargreaves took the hand she offered him and pulled himself up to his feet. He looked back with wide, disbelieving eyes as the demon writhed and thrashed on the floor. Blood spurted sporadically from the beasts's mouth, splashing the floor and walls as it pawed at its fanged mouth as if trying to stuff what remained of its ruined tongue back between its teeth.

"Christ alive," Hargreaves said in a hoarse whisper and scrambled for his weapon.

Sarah lunged back towards the booth and swept the VI-COMM laptop off the table. Tucking the unit under her arm she spun and saw the demon spring bonelessly back onto its haunches. Crimson fluid mixed with saliva and drooled to the ground. The creature screeched, showering the floor with droplets of blood.

Hargreaves leveled his pistol with what passed for the demon's face but Sarah pushed his arm down and gave him a shove towards the kitchen doors. "Just run!" She screamed and grabbed hold of his arm with one hand. The other wrapped around Homer's sleeve and she starting hauling both men towards the exit.

Tommy needed no such urging. He was already barreling his way down the hall, moving so fast Sarah thought he just might take off and run clear into the air and up through the roof. Instead he just tore through the doors like a battering ram with the others hot on his heels.

The kitchen area was small and clearly hadn't seen much use in a long while. A dusty stove and grill dominated the far wall. Beside the two appliances stood a trough-style sink piled high with dirty dishes and stagnant, soapy water. In the middle of the room was a long wooden table for food preparation. Stainless steel shelves ran the length of the near wall, stacked with pots, pans and bins filled with utensils.

Past those shelves, glowing like a beacon in a sea of fog, was a bright red _EXIT _sign. Sarah felt her breath catch as the doors behind her burst open and the demon came shrieking through.

Trailing blood and its skin of translucent goo, the creature whipped into the room with such speed that it literally fishtailed across the floor, its hind legs scrabbling for purchase on the concrete floor. Its claws ripped up thick chunks of stone before its right flank slammed into the stove with enough force to leave the metal looking like someone had taken a sledgehammer to it.

Sarah pulled down two of the shelves, spilling an avalanche of cookware across the floor, before she spun and raced after the others. At her back, the demon let loose a dry, warbling wail and she chanced a backwards glance. The creature surged forward, scuttling across the floor so low that its belly nearly dragged, and leapt nimbly over her crude obstacle course.

_Shit. _

Sarah ran faster. She grabbed Homer's shoulders and gave the old man a shove to really get him going.

Tommy hit the emergency exit first. He barreled out into the darkness followed closely by Harold Hargreaves and Homer. A cold breeze swept a blast of colder rain into Sarah's face. Squinting her eyes, she sucked in a breath and ran out into the downpour.

The cafe's back door led out into a narrow alley with a dumpster on one side and a pile of fly-infested trash bags on the other. With Tommy leading the way, they ran through the alley and out into a broader backstreet. A chain-link fence cut the corridor off from a series of tennis courts. On the other side, Sarah could see the streetlights of the main avenue.

"This way!" Hargreaves yelled, taking point as he pushed Tommy to one side. He hit the fence's gate at full speed, his shoulder wrenching the door from rusty hinges. The clatter of the gate hitting the ground was quickly swallowed up by a feral scream as the red demon came crashing through the cafe's emergency exit.

"Go! Go! _Go!_" Sarah screamed practically in Homer's ear.

They ran through the tennis courts, their feet beating a tattoo across the pavement. Whenever they came to a gate, Hargreaves kicked it down or shouldered his way through. Sarah swallowed mouthfuls of the sour rain as she panted, struggling to fill her lungs.

The demon kept pace easily, its clawed feet gave it superb purchase, tearing up the concrete like an athlete's cleats tearing up the turf. Sarah sensed the creature was only ever a step or two behind. She knew it must have been hysteria but she was _sure _she could feel its hot, fetid breath on the backs of her legs.

_If I hadn't cut off its tongue, _she realized as she pumped her arms and legs, lab coat flapping around her, _it'd be reeling me in like the catch of the day right now. _

Hargreaves kicked open a final gate and Sarah found herself back out on the main streets of Raccoon. She heard the moaning of the infected ahead, heard the screams of the demon behind. Her legs found another gear.

Another gust of wind blew a rush of raindrops into Sarah's face. She squeezed her eyes shut instinctively and lost her footing almost instantly. Something that felt like a bottle slipped beneath her foot and sent her stumbling forward. Sarah would have fallen but Homer caught her by the shoulders and held her up. He gave her a push to keep her going forward.

_I think I just owe you my first born for that move, Homes. _Her heart felt like an out of control piston, slamming in and out of her ribcage. _Thanks for keeping the Fat Lady from singing for me._

As far as Sarah could tell they were running blind but Hargreaves was in the lead and Sarah had no choice except to trust that the hired goon knew where he was going. Hisses and squeals chased her up the road, telling her that the demon hadn't given up the chase, but as she looked up, Sarah saw that there was a new threat to deal with.

RS carriers - zombies - swayed and lurched through the streets ahead. Already the creatures were turning towards Sarah and her group, their white eyes flickering in the darkness as their pasty lips parted to unleash a chorus of wet moans. There were too many to count and they all smelled meat.

_Crap. This is _not _good. This is not - _

"Over here!" Hargreaves called over his shoulder before pulling a hairpin turn to the right.

Sarah narrowed her eyes as she the security guard racing towards a small store near the intersection they were approaching. Then she saw the sign above the door and understood that Hargreaves' choice had been far from arbitrary.

_ The Raccoon City Bullseye: Raccoon's First Choice In Firearms and Ammunition! _

_ Boys and their toys. _Sarah could have smiled had it been any other time or place.

As they drew closer, Sarah saw that the doors and windows of the shop had been barred from the outside. Still these fortifications hadn't stopped the store from becoming one of the victims of the Raccoon riots. The door stood open and, even from this distance, Sarah could see that most of the displays inside the Bullseye had been overturned and ransacked. The odds of them just happening to stumble across an arsenal suddenly weren't looking so rosy.

_Those bars looked pretty sturdy though. If we can bar the door - do a better job of it than the poor bastard who owned this place - then maybe we can hold out. It's as close to fortifications as we're going to get. _

Hargreaves made his way up to the door and pivoted to his left as a carrier in a torn t-shirt and jeans staggered around around the corner. He put a single shot through the infected's forehead before slipping through the Bullseye's open door. Tommy almost dove through the entrance after him.

Homer dragged Sarah inside and threw the door shut. "Damn it! The lock's broken." He growled and winced as the door bucked against him. From outside came a trilling scream. "Find something to brace it with!"

Throwing his weight against the door, Hargreaves helped Homer keep it shut while Sarah and Tommy scrapped together a hasty barricade. They tossed empty displays, step ladders and even the cash register in front of the door. The final item added to the pile was a sandwich board sign that told customers to, _Inquire About Lessons From Our On-site Pro Shooter! _

_Too bad he isn't still around here..._

The shop hadn't just been tossed it'd been flipped on its head. Gun racks stood empty, tags littering the ground. Cases had been smashed and their contents looted. Crumpled boxes of cartridges and loose rounds lay scattered across the carpet. Bottles of lubricant and cleaning compounds had been spilled hither and yon.

But the barricade held. The door held. After a moment, Hargreaves and Homer slumped to the ground and lay there panting, watching the store's entrance with nervous eyes.

Outside, the demon continued to howl and hiss. Sarah could hear the sound of its talons scrapping across the steel bars but its efforts were wasted. The door shook but did not budge. After a couple minutes of frustrated banging and screaming, the creature went suddenly quiet. Once the door had ceased trembling in its frame, Sarah dared to believe that the demon had moved on. She located the light switch behind the counter and snapped it off just the same though.

_Being careful never killed anyone. _It was difficult to hear her thoughts above the sound of her gasping lungs and pounding heart. Before tonight she never would have guessed that the human body could make more noise than a thunderstorm. _At least, when it's appropriately terrified that is. _

Tommy grunted and took a seat next to her. He tilted his head back and rested it against the counter. The photographer was panting so hard it looked as if something was trying to burst its way out of his chest.

_Just like in that crappy Sigourney Weaver movie. _The thought made Sarah want to laughwhich she knew was strange. _Go figure. Truth really is stranger than fiction. This entire city is proof of that. _

A giddiness stole over the girl but Sarah was still lucid enough to realize that was an incredibly _bad _sign. She felt her shoulders start to tremble. Her lips began to twitch. She bit her tongue to keep from laughing, knowing if she started chuckling they'd have to ship her off to the Funny Farm and throw away the key. She felt giggles bubbling up from her belly like a rush of insects making a dash for freedom.

Biting her tongue wasn't working. Sarah needed a focus, something to take her mind off the insane hilarity that was threatening to leave her mind desolate. She found herself looking at her shoes - bright red Converse All-Stars. They were her favorite shoes, her _lucky _shoes, ones she'd worn since her first days at med school at the ripe old age of fourteen.

_Homer said that real doctors shouldn't wear sneakers to work but I always thought they were too cute to give up. Besides, I'm hardly the high heels and pencil skirt kind of girl. _

Sarah pulled her knees up to her chin and concentrated on her shoes. She poured every ounce of mental focus she possessed into looking at the worn, roughed up laces. She always kept them double-knotted, a habit her worrywart father had burned into her from the day she'd first learned to tie them on her own.

"Always double-knot your laces, honey," he would tell her every morning as he watched her get ready for school. "Little girls who don't double-knot, trip and fall and crack their heads open and all their smarts spill out onto the pavement and they wind up voting Republican for the rest of their lives."

"That's not true, Daddy," Sarah would always reply.

"I know, honey," he'd say without missing a beat, "but do it anyway."

Sarah studied that knot. It was solid, secure. It was the kind of knot that had to be pulled a certain way to come undone, a way that only Sarah knew. Otherwise it could stand up to almost anything. No matter what happened, that knot would stick it out. No matter how rough things got for the shoe, that knot wouldn't unravel.

_That's what I have to be like, _Sarah told herself and the giggles began to fizzle out. She felt the shakes seizing her arms and shoulders gently subside. Her breathing slowed and took her heart rate down with it. _I have to be a knot. I can't unravel. Homes, Hargreaves and even Tommy-fucking-Chan are counting on me keeping my shit together. I may have let down the rest of this city but they still need me. _

Slowly, Sarah exhaled and felt like herself again.

"I don't know how much more of this I can take, guys," Tommy groaned beside her, shaking his head with his eyes clamped shut. "Holy shit but I need another drink. No, ten more drinks. Minimum."

_You said it, pal. _

A hand, warm and rough, settled on her shoulder. Turning her head, Sarah found herself looking up at Hargreaves. She hadn't even seen him approach.

"Hey, doc." Hargreaves rubbed at the back of his neck, his eyes turned away then he sighed and looked back. "I'm not good at this kind of thing but...I just wanted to say thanks. You know, for pulling my ass out of the frying pan back there. Appreciate it and all that, you know?"

Sarah smiled gently at him and nodded. "You got it, you big lug." She felt safe enough to risk a chuckle now and did so. "I figured you've saved our butts enough that it was time someone paid you back for it."

"No sweat, doc," Hargreaves grinned. "Always a pleasure."

"Maybe you'll let me call you Harry from now on? Hargreaves sounds so formal and Harold makes you sound like a world champion chess player or computer nerd."

"Sure, doc," he laughed softly, "whatever you want."

"I hate to break up the little love in," Tommy muttered, eyes still closed and sucking in wind as if it tasted like honey, "but does anybody have _any _idea on what the _fuck _we should do next?"

No one bothered to answer Tommy at first. Silence hung thick and suffocating in the darkness of the trashed gun store. No one spoke a single word and, to Sarah, that said volumes.

_ It says none of us have a clue about how we're going to get out of this mess. _

Finally, Homer voiced an idea.

"We could try praying."


	13. The Gym

**Chapter Twelve: The Gym**

"This is a high school?" Tucker asked with a quirked eyebrow. "Looks more like the Pentagon."

Danny decided his deputy's statement wasn't exactly accurate. _If anything, it looks more like the Octagon. _

Samuel MacPhee Memorial was composed of interlocking red and black bricks, giving the main building the look of a three-dimensional checkerboard. With its contrasting colors and wide, octagonal shape, it gave more the impression of a piece of post-modernistic art than that of a small city high school. Smaller rectangular buildings with a more conventional gray look and squat metal portables ran in a loose semi-circle around the main building.

Though Danny had no clue who Samuel MacPhee was or had been, judging by the tall brass statue dominating the school's front lawn of a chubby, smiling man in a blazer and slacks, he probably was - or had been - some local politician that had donated a boatload of money to education programs. A square plaque was etched beneath MacPhee's brass shoes but reading the man's life story was the furthest thing from Danny's mind at that moment.

The parking lot was much more interesting anyway. So many vehicles were jammed into the lot that drivers had taken to ignoring the painted spaces altogether. Cars were parked at haphazard angles, so close together that in some cases doors or bumpers were actually touching flush. The school's lawn had become a makeshift overflow for those residents who missed the initial rush. Tire tracks had torn apart the grass, spitting mud and dirt across the front walkway but, miraculously, Sam MacPhee's statute remained immaculate.

Danny noticed several emergency vehicles parked outside as well. A handful of R.P.D. squad cars and ambulances were scattered throughout the lot or lined the curb. One of the cruisers still had it's lights flashing.

_Damn, looks like everyone came out to this little shindig_, Danny observed as he spotted a pair of news vans packed in with the rest of the scrapyard. _**Channel Six News **_was printed across the side of one in bold, slanted red lettering. The other had the words _Raccoon Action News _pasted over a fiery background.

_This must have been what Sheesh was talking about when he said we had to see it to believe it. _Danny felt his spirits rise for the first time in what felt like days. _More survivors - and the authorities to boot. Some people who might actually have some goddamn idea about what's going on in this city._

_ The media's here too. Those reporters must have some way of staying in contact with their stations. Phones, e-mail, Christ if there's a postman in there I'll have him _run_ a message all the way to New York for me. Tell HQ to bring everything short of a battleship to get our asses out of here. _

There were less than a dozen of the zombies wandering around outside the school grounds - and blessedly none of the feral dogs that had ripped apart Ross' bar. As Danny led the others towards the front doors the creatures turned, voicing wet gurgles and dark moans. Even though none of them were close enough to prove a threat, the second those ashen, peeling faces moved their way, Briggs and his Rangers, perhaps seeking some measure of revenge, opened fire. Half a dozen bodies hit the ground, blood pooling around their heads.

Danny could sympathize with the men. As much as he didn't like to think about it, he had to admit that so far - despite every bad break and impossible, new terror the freak show of Raccoon City had to offer - he had been relatively lucky. Everyone on his team was still alive.

Lieutenant Briggs and his men had spent less than an hour in the city before being forced to watch their friends ripped apart, literally devoured by creatures that had managed to find their way out of the latest B horror movie. Danny didn't care who you were, that was no way to die.

_Sure as hell isn't any way to _see _someone die either. I don't give a damn how tough today's soldier is supposed to be. I seriously doubt they prepare you to deal with _this _insane crap in boot. _

_ Every sight we see in this place, everything we put ourselves through, is poisoning us. It's infecting us the same way those zombies are infected with whatever disease that's got their skin falling off and their fangs coming out. Only it's our minds that are sickened, polluted and - one day - we're going to have to deal with the consequences of that illness. _Danny paused as something occurred to him then. _If we all live long enough to have a mental breakdown that is. _

Danny might not know just what thoughts were running through the minds of the Rangers but he could certainly understand their desire - their _need _- to lash out, to strike back. He knew that if anything happened to anyone on his team - even Sheesh, Patron Saint of Pains In The Ass - he would want to run out there with guns blazing too, looking to get even.

_Get even with who though? _Danny reached for his radio. _It was the virus that killed Briggs' men when you boil it down. It was the virus that killed this city. You can't fight a sickness with anything we have here: you can't shoot it or hit it or grind it beneath your boot. _

_ There's the zombies, sure, but how much blame can you really lay at the doorsteps of those...things. Their not even human anymore, just unthinking puppets driven by the instinct to feed. They're nothing more than the unwitting soldiers of an unseen enemy. _

"Sheesh, we're at the school," Danny reported over the comm. "Where are you at?"

"We're holed up in the lobby of the main building," Sheesh replied. His voice was slightly distorted and there was an unusual amount of static in the transmission. "In fact, I can see you guys coming in now. I'll have our lovely doorwoman Michelle let you in."

_The main lobby? _Danny raised an eyebrow. Something as large as an emergency shelter would require a huge amount of space. It made more sense for it to be set up in the school's auditorium or gym. Danny sensed someone kicking sand over the flames of his hope. _Something's not what it seems here. _

As Danny was beginning to entertain thoughts of trepidation, one of the front doors opened and Michelle came through. She trained her M4 on the remaining six creatures as they made their ponderously slow approach but none of them was close enough to justify wasting ammunition on. Keeping a watchful eye all the same, she waved Danny and the others inside.

The lobby was wide, deep and, sticking to the school's obtuse architecture, roughly pentagonal. Dominating the far wall was a tall case well-stocked with plaques and trophies from swim and track meets, along with a host of other athletic achievements. The main office stood in the corner of one wall's unusual joints but Danny could see through its windows that the desk stood unmanned. Overhead florescent lights hummed quietly, bathing a pair of benches in pale light. They highlighted the fatigue and weariness on the faces of the survivors who rested there.

Danny stood a moment, catching his breath as he let his eyes wander over each member of his ragtag group. Reggie and Bert sat close together, talking in voices too low to be heard. The marshal was surprised a hole hadn't been drilled through the dusty linoleum floor yet based on how hard Reggie was staring at it. Beside him, Bert still had the shaky hands and queasy complexion of a man who'd just gone for a spin in an industrial washing machine.

Sheesh and Drake occupied the bench opposite the the barkeep and his buddy. Drake reclined with his feet out, legs spread, head back and eyes closed. Danny scowled at the bastard. _Middle of the goddamn Apocalypse and he decides _now _is the perfect time for a cat nap? I'd strangle him in his sleep but that'd just be stooping to his level. _

Standing over the slumbering felon with one foot raised on the bench, Sheesh watched his prisoner with more amusement than annoyance but that hardly surprised Danny. If he knew his deputy then the only thing upsetting Sheesh right now was that Drake had been able to snatch some shuteye before he'd had the opportunity to do so himself. Danny noticed that while his deputy's carbine wasn't pointed directly at Drake, it wasn't exactly pointed away either.

The pair of Raccoon detectives flanked Marty, standing close but saying nothing. Clarke stood with his arms folded and a thousand yard stare dulling his eyes. Danny thought for a moment that the gumshoe looked nearly as sick as Bert. His partner was actually _grinning _as he watched Drake trying to catch up on his beauty sleep but that wasn't what raised Danny's eyebrow.

"Where'd you find the big gauge?" He asked, nodding to the pump-action Mossberg shotgun Mick cradled in his arms.

"This little beauty?" Mick asked, propping the 12 gauge across his shoulder. "We came across a crashed squad car on the way here. The trunk was popped and I noticed this sitting in the back with a couple boxes of shells. No one was around so I figured I'd help myself."

"I believe, Detective Murphy," Sheesh chimed in, "that they commonly refer to _helping yourself _as _stealing _in our society." He shook his head and _tsk_ed dramatically. "Cops stealing from cops. What's the world come to?"

Mick grunted. "Tell you what. When I want your opinion, I'll ask for it. Got that, boy?"

Sheesh smiled and winked back.

"Hilarious," Briggs rumbled, stepping past Danny. He glared daggers at Mick before turning the points of those knives on the marshal commander. "Now, if we're all done with the fucking laugh riot, would someone mind telling me just what _the fuck_ is going on in this city?"

"While you're at it," Scaggs added, brushing past Danny to stand beside his lieutenant, "how about explaining why Sleeping Beauty over there is wearing handcuffs?"

Danny opened his mouth to respond when a heavy _slam _made his heart jump and head spin. Behind him he saw Michelle looking back apologetically as she closed the door. Gilson and Tucker made their way past her and into the lobby where they helped Shivers lower a grimacing Thorn onto the bench after Reggie and Bert scrambled to give them space.

"Sorry," she said with a sheepish wince. She clicked the deadbolt into place then set about hastily retying a length of chain around the door handles. When she saw Danny staring Michelle said, "When we got here all the doors were chained and padlocked shut. We had to shoot our way in."

Danny nodded as a pinprick of dread jabbed him in the gut. _An emergency shelter that's locked up tight as a drum? Shouldn't they have security checkpoints set up, personnel stationed at every entrance waiting to screen people coming in?_ _This place isn't adding up. _

"I hate to disappoint you, lieutenant," Danny told Briggs as Michelle came down the hall to rejoin them, "but I'm afraid I can answer your second question better than your first." He pointed to Drake. "That man there is Drake Lincoln. You might have heard about him if you follow the news closely enough but he's wearing bracelets right now because he kills people for money and, unfortunately, he's pretty damn good at it."

Aside from the slightest twitching at the corners of his eyes, Briggs gave no outward sign that he found any of that information impressive. Danny gave the Ranger a second to let everything he had just said sink in anyway before continuing.

"As for what's going on in this city," Danny shrugged, "you've got as much of an idea as I do."

"Bullshit," Briggs spat. "You've been here longer than us. You must have some fucking clue about why the people out there are _eating _each other!"

"All we were told during our briefing was that there was a virus running through town and the CDC had ordered the whole place quarantined," Scaggs said in a calmer, smoother tone. Danny was beginning to sense that the sergeant served as ice to the lieutenant's fire. "We knew there was rioting, looting and violence but I think _cannibalism _is pushing the boundaries of simple civil disobedience."

"I don't know what the technical term is for those things," Mick said, "but I think _zombies _is a pretty good place to start."

"_Bullshit_!" Briggs spun on the detective, his face as red as Danny imagined his eyes should have been. "Do you expect me to believe that? What is this - some kind of fucking George A. Romero movie?"

"It's fast becoming one," Sheesh said but didn't look in the mood to expand any further on that thought once he felt the heat of Briggs' eyes tickling the back of his neck.

"Listen," Danny sighed. "It's like I tried to explain to you on the way here. My team came here to transport a prisoner back to New York. On the way to the airport we got caught up in one of the riots and had to flee on foot. The next thing you know, the entire goddamn population is trying to have us for dinner. We kicked down the first door we could find and just happened to run into Bert and Reggie over there."

The lieutenant shifted his smoldering eyes to encompass the two men. Reggie nodded solemnly then promptly returned his attention to the tiles under his boots. Bert looked up sharply at the sound of his name. If his smile was nervous then his wave could only be described as profoundly awkward.

"Don't forget about Linda and Luke," Gilson muttered darkly as he strolled past to lean against a vending machine pressed into one corner. "Or the dogs that crashed their party."

"Dogs?" Shivers asked, looking up from wrapping a field dressing around his pilot's bleeding leg.

"You haven't met the Raccoon pooches yet, huh?" Gilson's smile made Danny's skin crawl. "Just wait. Think Dobermans with no skin and too many teeth. Little fuckers might be dead but the could still chase you down in your sleep. Looks like their animal instincts are still intact too. I saw them go right for this lady's throat, ripped it clean out. You could see the blood leaking down its chops, bits of meat still stuck between -"

"That's _enough, _Mike!" Danny growled as he stormed over and thrust a finger into his chest. He ignored the scowl the deputy directed his way. "You think talking like that is going to help anyone?" He dropped his voice to a whisper as rough as sandpaper. "I don't know what's wrong with you, Gilly, but you better square your shit away and _pronto. _You hear me?"

Gilson replied with silence. He met Danny's fiery stare with a stony one. The burly deputy looked deep into his commander's eyes, grinding his teeth. Danny thought he could hear the friction of the man's jaw clicking as the muscles in his cheek bulged.

_What the hell is going on with you, Gilly?_

"Anyway," Michelle continued uncertainly, giving Danny and Gilson a wary glance, "after the dogs attacked we took off. We'd heard earlier in the bar that this school was set up as a shelter for civilians. We figured if anyone might have an idea about what's happening they'd be here."

"That," Clarke grunted, "and we didn't really have any better ideas about where to go to at the time."

"Which raises another question," Danny said, giving Gilson one last withering look before turning away. "Sheesh, the suspense has me tingling. You said there was something here I needed to see?"

The color slipped from the skinny deputy's long face. A tremor so faint and brief rippled across his lower lip but Danny wasn't sure he had seen it at all a second later. Sheesh swallowed thickly then nodded.

"Yeah, Boss. You better come with."

"I'm going too," Briggs added almost immediately. "Scaggs, you're with me. Shivers, stay here and keep an eye on Thorn."

"What happened to your boy there?" Clarke asked, nodding to the pilot's injured leg as Shivers finished tying the bandage and pulled the knot tight. Thorn grit his teeth and swallowed a yelp of pain.

"One of those crazy assholes climbed into the cockpit and took a bite out of him," Shivers answered as he rose to his feet.

"Son of a bitch came out of nowhere," Thorn managed to get out between clenched jaws.

Danny looked over, saw Clarke's eyes narrowing. He watched as the detective's hand strayed to the butt of his Glock. Within a second, the marshal was at his side, grabbing hold of the man's wrist and locking it against his side.

Unfortunately, he'd still been too slow and the action hadn't gone unnoticed. Hissing, Briggs swept his M4 up and leveled it with Clarke's chest. Scaggs was only a step behind his lieutenant, drawing a bead on the side of the detective's head. Cursing, Mick had his shotgun raised within a heartbeat of the other two men bringing their weapons to bear. Each time he blinked, the grizzled old cop switched targets, jumping back and forth between the two Rangers aiming down on his partner.

All this took place faster than a man could pull in one long, deep breath, giving Sheesh and Shivers little time to process just what was happening. Clearly, when Shivers saw his officers taking aim he elected to go with the chain of command and started to raise his own carbine. Sheesh, perhaps thinking the young Ranger meant to turn his weapon on Danny, pressed the barrel of his M4 against the soldier's head.

"Woah!" Danny barked, holding a hand out. "Stay that weapon, deputy!" He turned back to Clarke, nearly pressed nose-to-nose with the man. "What in God's name do you think you're _doing, _detective?" He could feel the man's arm straining against his grasp.

"He can't come with us, Danny." There was a fevered cast to Clarke's eyes as they darted between the marshal and the wounded Ranger pilot. "If he's been bitten then he's infected - same as the rest of this fucking city. It's not safe for any of us to be around him."

"I'm _fine," _Thorn spat though he looked anything but. The man's face was so white as to be nearly translucent. Sweat soaked his face despite the fact that the air conditioning was still going full blast within the halls of the school. It left his hair pasted to his head and formed stains beneath his arms. Absently, Thorn scratched at his bandage as blood seeped into the gauze.

"What the fuck is he talking about, Cobb?" Briggs demanded, the veins in his neck pulsing and throbbing. The Ranger's commander was a fiddle with a couple strings wound to the point of breaking.

_Aren't we all though. _

"Your pilot is sick," Clarke said before Danny could answer. "He's got Raccoon Syndrome, the same disease that's turned pretty much every goddamn person in town into a flesh eating psychopath."

"What do you know about it?" Scaggs snipped. "You a doctor now or something?"

"He's a dead man if the hand on that pistol moves half an inch," Briggs muttered, his voice low and deadly. Somehow the man sounded more dangerous when he wasn't cursing with every other word.

"I don't know," Clarke spat, "do I need a PhD to see the obvious now? Those creatures out there...those _things..._are sick. If they get their teeth into you, I don't think it's a big fucking leap to assume that you're probably going to come down with a bad case of whatever the hell it is that's doing a number on them. How do you think this bug spread so fast?"

"You army boys might not be smart enough to put two and two together but we're detectives," Mick grinned a venomous smile, "it's sort of our job."

"We'll see how smart your fucking mouth is after I blow it off your face, asshole," Briggs scowled, training his weapon on Clarke's partner now.

Matters were getting out of hand, slipping through Danny's fingers like a fistful of sand. He looked around, saw firearms trembling in nervous hands. Reggie and Bert had withdrawn behind Michelle who stood with her M4 half-raised and shoulders set. The two men had their legs locked, looking ready to bolt like startled deer if so much as a pin dropped. Hands on the grips of their pistols, Gilson and Tucker exchanged glances - Christ, Gilson looked almost _eager_.

Anger, hot and pure, boiled up from the pit of Danny's gut until the fumes of that rage reached his heart. He squeezed Clarke's arm tighter before roughly shoving the man back a step. _Fuck this. _He was done with this. He had enough of the...the...infectious _insanity _of this place.

"Put your guns down!" Danny shouted, whirling around to address anyone fool enough to have drawn their weapon. "Put your _fucking _guns down _now! _In case you haven't noticed this entire _fucking _city is trying to kill us. _All _of us! If you're all itching to go and get yourselves killed then why don't you just open those doors and take a step outside?"

As if to punctuate his point a heavy banging on the front doors had heads snapping around. The creatures the Rangers hadn't put down had reached the entrance of the school. Ghastly faces pressed to the glass, smearing blood and worse across the glass. Chipped nails clawed at the windows; peeling fists punched at the doors. The chains bucked but held fast.

"There's plenty of ways to die around here without us adding to the list," Danny growled.

Slowly, uncertainly, warily, the marshals lowered their weapons. Michelle first, followed quickly by Tucker and a reluctant looking Mike Gilson. Sheesh followed suit a second later and even Shivers, perspiring almost as badly as Thorn, secured his M4 as well. Briggs and his sergeant were longer in following the trend but eventually they too dropped their sights. Only then did Mick do so as well. Through it all, Drake slept as peacefully as a babe in his crib.

"You want to shoot him, Clarke?" Danny demanded, turning on the detective with a force so sudden that the other man actually flinched. "You want to put a bullet through Thorn based on a theory?"

"Danny, there's no way he's not in-"

"We don't know that for sure," Danny cut in...though he had to admit his voice lacked the conviction he was hoping to find. "Even if he is, then what? You're just going to shoot him in the head, execute him? Are you a cop or a murderer like Drake over there, Clarke?"

Clarke stared at him hard for the space of a heartbeat before he finally lowered his eyes. The detective scrubbed a shaky palm through his slick black hair. Finally, he let out an explosive breath.

"It's not safe," Clarke muttered weakly but promptly thrust his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

_Just keep your oath in mind, detective. It was to serve and protect...not kill out of necessity. _

"I'm telling you all, I'm fine," Thorn panted, each word a labor to get out. "I'm not...I'm not going to end up like those..._things _out there." He scratched irritably at his bandage.

Danny studied the pilot saw the determination in his eyes but even that was quickly drowning in a pool of fear. He wondered, if the man _was _infected then where did that leave him? If Thorn was sick then there was nothing any of them could do for him. Not, at least, unless they just happened to possess the good fortune to stumble across the miracle cure that eluded the top researchers at the CDC thus far.

_That's not true though. There is something we could do for him. There's Clarke's option._

Danny dismissed that idea almost as quickly as he had thought it. He wouldn't even consider it - not now, not yet. He was a United States Marshal for God's sake. Danny Cobb was not prepared to put another man down like a rabid dog.

_Not unless I have to. _

A thought nagged at Danny though, one he couldn't help but entertain. How long could he afford to stick to such noble principles? How long did Thorn have before he...before he _turned?_ If he had contracted RS through the bite on his leg then that made the pilot a ticking time bomb effectively. How much time was left on the clock?

_Only when his fuse goes off he won't take us all out in a fiery blast. No. He'll go for our throats. Try to dig his teeth into our soft skin, drink down our warm blood, swallow the gristle he tastes - _

Danny blinked. He shook his head. He had never felt so tired before in his life.

_Keep it together, Danny Boy. You're hanging on by a thread. _

"Listen," the marshal commander went on in a more diplomatic tone, "I understand that this is a pretty extreme situation and we've all seen some crazy shit pretty much from the moment we got here. Everyone's nerves are a little bit frayed right now and I don't blame anyone for that but the only way we're going to survive long enough to figure this out and get the hell out of Dodge is if everybody sucks it up and works together. Turning on each other isn't going to help anybody's cause."

Danny noticed several lowered gazes at those words. An embarrassed flush even crept into the stubbly features of Detective Clarke. Briggs just scowled and grumbled something unintelligible in the darkness of his throat.

"Danny's got a point," Drake said, eyes still closed. His voice made Sheesh jump, spinning around and looking ready to raise his M4 before he seemed to come back to himself. The skinny deputy blew out a breath Danny bet he hadn't even realized he'd been holding. "After all, we may be the only normal people left in the city."

Drake's eyes flashed open. He peered around at the dirty, grit and sweat streaked faces surrounding him. He took in their worn clothing and expressions of bewildered fear. The killer watched as hands tightened around the grips of weapons, knuckles turning white. A small grin lit his rough face.

"Of course," he added with an eerie amount of cheer in his voice, "I use the word _normal _in its most liberal sense."

_He was never asleep, just resting his eyes. _Danny glared at his prisoner. _He heard every word. He just sat there relaxing through that entire Mexican standoff like it was a song playing over the radio. Just background noise. _

_ Drake Lincoln. Slippery son of a bitch. _

"We're wasting time," Danny grunted, annoyed, tearing his eyes away from the murderer. "Sheesh, show me what I need to see."

"I'm coming with -"

"I heard you the first time," Danny boldly interrupted Briggs. "We're _all _going. This school is huge. I'm not going to risk any of us getting separated. Have your boys help Thorn out. Sheesh, you take point. Mitch, you're babysitting again but don't worry - I'm sure he won't be cranky after that nice long nap."

Drake nodded at the marshal commander, that crooked grin turning his thin lips into a diagonal line. Drake's smiling face was abruptly replaced by Lieutenant Briggs' glowering one. He curled a fist in the front of Danny's shirt.

"Get one thing straight, asshole," the Ranger hissed, pulling their faces close together so that only Danny could hear his words. "I _don't _take orders from _you. _You get me?"

The lieutenant's beady black eyes shimmered like two obsidian stones covered in dew. They seemed to quake and stutter as they locked onto Danny's. The marshal wasn't sure if it was fear that made those eyes tremble as it struggle to break free and take control or madness. Either way, Danny was too tired and frustrated to bother feeling intimidated. He brushed the Ranger's hand away.

"We had better get moving, Briggs."

Briggs held his gaze for another moment. Those two dark stones continued to shift and shake. Finally, he stepped away and barked over his shoulder. "Let's move! Scaggs, Shivers, get Thorn up on his feet."

With Sheesh in the lead, Danny and the others walked through long, winding corridors of white concrete walls and unswept tile floors. They passed by bulletin boards decorated with flyers for upcoming school events and photos from past ones. Empty classrooms stood silent vigil over rows and rows of abandoned desks. Banks of lockers stood shut, unused.

The quiet of the place screamed in Danny's ears. Every so often he thought he heard something over the sound of their feet scrapping across the floor. The ghost of a bell announcing the start of class, the whisper of adolescent laughter, the hint of a door opening and closing.

He wiped sweat from his eyes with the back of his hand. _Fuck me, why is this place so quiet? _He mopped at his eyes again. _There should be hundreds of people here but it's silent as summertime. _

At first, Danny had no clue how Sheesh was finding his way but then he noticed the signs tacked up to the cork boards or taped to the walls. Rectangular pieces of orange paper with words typed in bold black lettering. _**SHELTER SERVICES IN GYMNASIUM: POLICE AND MEDICAL PERSONNEL ON HAND.**_Arrows were printed below the text pointing the way to the gym.

As they drew nearer, Danny could hear those around him sniffing at the air, letting out soft noises of disgust. He detected the foul odor a second later. It was the scent of spoiled food and the metallic reek of copper. The back of his throat locked as an unseen assailant twisted a icy talon in his belly.

_Oh, God. Tell me someone just left a sandwich on the heater or something. _

Unfortunately, Danny knew better than to believe that. Thanks to his line of work, he was all too familiar with those smells.

Sheesh stepped up to one of the doors leading into the gym. He wrapped his fingers around the handle then turned back to look at the others with an expression devoid of his usual sarcasm and joviality.

"Might want to brace yourselves," he said before easing the door open and stepping through.

Steeling himself, Danny followed close behind. When he first set foot in the gym, Danny thought the walls and floors had been painted red. Then the marshal noticed the spatter patterns, the uneven spread, and recognized it for what it was.

_Blood._ He swallowed the gorge in his throat painfully, nearly gagging as the stench intensified tenfold. The sickly sweet smell flooded Danny's nostrils, charging the back of his throat to slam mercilessly into his gut. Grimacing, he pressed a hand over his mouth and choked down a surge of bile. _So much blood. _

"Good God," Bert breathed, looking around, too awed by the gore splashed across every inch of the gym to look sickened.

"Something tells me God's on vacation from this place," Mick grunted as he took in the scene, his face creased with lines of revulsion.

Despite the old detective's comment, Scaggs still muttered "Christ" as he stepped inside. Even Drake looked like he was struggling to keep his lunch down as Michelle dragged him in by the scruff of his neck.

On the walls, on the floor, the blood was still wet. It had been splattered across the concrete walls and spilled over the hardwood floor. Bloody handprints and streaks marred the white paint or marked trails towards the door, hinting that even the grievously wounded had made one last desperate attempt to escape whatever horror had been unleashed inside the arena.

The shelter itself had been trashed - no, not trashed - _destroyed. _Wooden tables had been upended and smashed in half. The coffee they had once displayed now lay scattered across the floor, mixing with the blood to form sticky black patches here and there. Gym mats had been torn to shreds, their stuffing spilling out like a gutted animal's entrails, stained with crimson. Cots lay on their sides, their metal frames warped and bent in so many places they could have passed for giant pretzels.

Worst of all was the human debris that littered the room. Bodies, like the blood, had been scattered everywhere. They sat slumped in the corners, chins pressed to chests, faces shut. Others had fallen among the ruins of the tables, mats and cots, hands wrapped over faces as if fending off a downpour of blows. Many more simply lay splayed out across the hardwood, flat on their faces as if felled by sudden heartaches.

_I wish that was the case. _

Their faces were smooth and closed, as if in sleep, but from their deaths had been far from peaceful. The ripped flesh, exposed innards and missing limbs pointed to the certainty of that. Danny looked away, already knowing that the images of the dead would be burned into his mind's eye forever.

_Lucky for me, forever might be a short time in Raccoon City. _

Blocking out the scenes of slaughter all around him, Danny focused instead on the structure running the length of the opposite wall. A three level scaffold had been erected in front of a massive mural that depicted the head of a masked desert warrior. Tall, block letters spelled out the name _**MacPhee Marauders **_in edgy purple font. Paint cans and roller trays lay scattered across the high scaffold which ran from the floor almost all the way up to the huge ceiling fans.

"What...the...fuck?" Briggs walked out into the middle of the gym, his face wrinkling as he scanned the floor. Whether it was in confusion or repulsion, Danny couldn't say. "What happened in here? This is a goddamn bloodbath."

"Some of those things got in," Michelle muttered. She had pulled the front of her sweater up over her nose to block out the worst of the death-smell. "They must have."

Danny rattled off a quick count in his head. "This isn't everyone. It can't be."

"What are you talking about?" Briggs asked with a raised eyebrow, staring over at Danny.

"Outside," the marshal commander said, "there's enough cars in the parking lot to open up your own dealership but here there's only thirty people maybe."

"What are you saying?" Reggie's voice was muffled. He had both meaty hands clamped over his nose and mouth. "You think those things carried off some of them?"

"No, Reggie," Danny answered slowly, "I'm thinking something much worse than that."

Shuffling footsteps drew the marshal's eye as Thorn hobbled in supported by Shivers. The pale, clammy cast to the pilot's skin was alarming, as was the way his eyes rolled up in his skull with every step. Each time he was forced to put weight on his wounded leg a muffled growl of pain escaped between Thorn's gritted teeth.

"Put me...put me down." His breathing was low and slow. Each time his chest fell, Danny expected it to be his last. "I've got...got to get off this leg, man."

"All right, buddy," Shivers said gently as he set his comrade down near the gym's entrance, propping him up against the wall. "Just take it easy, you hear?"

Thorn nodded and rested his head against the cool concrete. His eyes rolled once more before slowly fluttering shut. Danny could see them twitching quick as rabbit's feet behind the closed lids. Each of Thorn's breaths was shallower and took longer in coming.

"Worse?" Reggie asked, bringing Danny's gaze back around. The contractor raked a hand through a thinning line of hair. A nervous laugh ran through the man. "What could be worse than this?" He gestured wide with both arms.

"What's worse is having those things take you down, rip into you but then you get back up again." Clarke's face was deadpan, flat as a steel sheet. "You pick yourself up and start walking around - only you're not you anymore. You're one of _them. _You don't breathe, you don't feel, you don't _think. _You're just looking to feed."

Clarke passed by Reggie, who now stood frozen with wide eyes and a hand stuck in what little hair was left to him. The detective patted the stocky man on the shoulder and flashed him a bright grin as he walked by.

"_That's _what Danny's talking about, Reg."

"If that's true," Shivers said as he walked up to a woman who lay face first in a pool of her own blood, "then why did only some of them get back up to look for someone else to chew on?" He nudged the corpse with the toe of his boot, lifting her up a couple of inches experimentally before letting her body fall again. "How come these guys all got the luxury of staying dead?"

"Beats me," Danny sighed. "I only made it out of my high school science class with a 55."

"Sounds like another shoddy _theory _to me," Briggs commented with a fierce look over at Clarke.

"Hey Boss!" Tucker's voice was a low roll of thunder. "I've got something over here. You'll want to come take a look."

Walking to where Tucker stood, Danny noticed that his deputy was holding a shoulder-mounted news camera. The camera was a large, bulky device but in Godwin's thick paws it looked like a toy. Holding the cam in one hand, Tucker passed Danny a card laminated in plastic.

"Found this lying next to it," the dark-skinned deputy explained.

It was an ID badge, Danny saw. The name _Rebecca West _was printed beneath the headshot of a handsome woman with long black hair, dark blue eyes and full, red lips. According to logo that served as the card's background, Miss West worked as a reporter for Channel Six News.

"Hey, can I see that for a second?" Bert asked, peeking over Danny's shoulder. He handed the press badge back to the barkeeper who studied it with squinted eyes for a moment before they snapped open so wide and fast, Danny thought they might pop clean out of his skull and bounce across the hardwood. "Holy shit! Rebecca West. She's pretty big time around here."

"Local celebrity or something?" Danny asked.

"Yeah, you could say that. She's always breaking big stories." Bert paused and flashed Danny a sheepish grin. "Well, big stories for Raccoon anyway. She was the first one to find out about all the issues with the heads of the labor union who won the contract to start developing the Raccoon Subway System and next to Ben Bertolucci she's the biggest pain in the ass of the Chief of Police. It was their reports that had people asking Chief Irons about some of his...uh...habits in the bedroom."

"Like that was ever a big secret," Mick snorted, pacing in a loose circle around the others. "Everyone knows Irons likes to linger just a little too long outside the high schools. Well...I guess everyone _knew _it anyway. Be a fitting end for that fat waste of skin if he was one of the ones that ate it in this place."

"Just a question, Mick," Danny asked fixing the detective with a look of mock amiability, "but is there anyone on this planet that you actually _like?"_

Mick stopped his aimless circling and seemed to think on it a moment. He chewed the inside of his lip before shaking his head.

"Doubt it," he said, "Clarke over there is my best friend and I hate his guts. Hell, most days I spend just watching him at his desk, planning on the best way to kill him and dispose of the remains without getting caught."

"Love you too, buddy."

"Hey, Boss, there's something recorded on here," Tucker announced, fiddling with the camera. "I think I can get it into playback mode. One second...here we go." Danny felt the others crowd in around them as Tucker flipped out the camera's viewfinder and hit the play button.

The tape began to roll. Rebecca appeared on camera after a moment, smoothing out the rumples in a dark crimson blazer and skirt that matched the color of her lipstick. Gripping her microphone tight in one hand, she used the other to flip strands of greasy-looking, disheveled hair back over her shoulders. Everything about the reporter's posture spoke of tension and stress. Danny noticed the hand holding her mic trembled ever so slightly.

"_Jeez," _Bert whispered at Danny's shoulder. "I've never seen her look like that. Normally her hair and make-up are done to the nines and she's looking like a stone couldn't show less emotion."

"Just think about everything she had to go through to get here," Danny said. "Think about everything she had to _do._"

As Rebecca went about reorganizing her appearance, the scene behind her was pure pandemonium. Police officers ran in and out of the frame, their eyes wide and expressions lost. People milled around in the background, some were wrapped in ratty looking blankets, others in torn clothes, nearly all were stained with sweat or blood.

From where she was standing, a row of cots was visible behind Rebecca. Each and every one was full but Danny doubted any one of the people occupying them had been able to find any rest. Groans, moans and raised cries filled the room, echoing out through the gym to an almost overpowering degree. Many of those stretched out on the makeshift beds were marred by cuts and bruises. Danny saw one man laying behind the reporter was actually twitching and bucking beneath his blanket.

A paramedic ran through the shot, his latex gloves covered in blood. Rebecca turned her back as he swept past her, watching him go for a moment before turning back to the camera. She started to raise the mic before a second paramedic stormed by her, a first-aid kit tucked under one arm.

"Hey, Rebecca?" A gruff, male voice barked off camera. "You ready?"

"Y-yeah," She said uncertainly, turning back and combed her hair one last time with her fingers. She cleared her throat and like a magical snap of the fingers all traces of the woman's anxiety and discomfort vanished. Nerves of string turned to steel as her hand held the mic perfectly still a couple inches below her chin. "Give me a countdown, Derrick."

"Alright. Five...four...three...two...one...and rolling."

"It's been just over an hour since we arrived here and already the the shelter at Samuel MacPhee Memorial High School appears to be utterly overwhelmed." Rebecca spoke in the iron-shod, authoritative voice that seemed to go hand-in-hand with journalists the world over. "Earlier residents were told that police and medical staff would be available at the shelter but unfortunately that's not entirely true. As advertised there _are _law enforcement personnel at the shelter but the medical staff consists of just _two _paramedics, not doctors as many residents had believed at first.

"Signs set up in the shelter itself do not make this distinction and no announcement was ever issued by emergency service workers to inform people trying to make their way here. Now, they can hardly be faulted for failing to issue any communication about this - cell towers and emergency switchboards are absolutely overwrought with calls since the crisis started - but more than half of the more than two hundred people here are seriously injured. One woman even _died _after having her jugular bit through."

"Oh, God," Michelle whispered, putting a hand over her mouth.

"To put it simply," Rebecca continued, clearly in her element now, fire starting to flicker in her eyes and enter her voice, "the medics here just can't cope with the sheer _volume _of people coming through the doors that have been hurt either as a result of the riots or the RS patients attacking passersby on the streets. Security is also becoming a concern as many of the residents here were angered by the fact that there are no doctors on hand as well as a serious lack of food and water. One man I spoke to said that he can understand that the shelter here had to be put together last minute but that the city should have had a better plan in place to make sure it was adequately stocked and staffed.

"He wasn't alone in this opinion either and the officers here are having a difficult time maintaining order and civility. Several of the bolder dissidents here have actually gone so far as to grab the police and yell in their faces. There _were _more officers watching the school earlier but they were forced to leave on duty calls to either reinforce the roadblocks or boost the ranks of the other emergency shelter."

"_Other _shelter?" Danny asked, passing a quizzical look around at the others.

"There's one other one that we know about." To Danny's surprise, it was Lieutenant Briggs who answered. "The captain mentioned it during our briefing. Supposedly Police Precinct 24 has been designated as a emergency shelter for civilians as well." He paused. "It was supposed to be our rally point in case anything went wrong with the mission."

"I'd say things went more than just _wrong,_" Danny muttered, looking back to the camera's viewfinder as the video continued to play. Briggs had explained on the run over that his unit had been sent in with four others to help the RPD secure the city's barricades and keep a boot firmly planted on any civil unrest._ Talk about a day late and a dollar short._ "You guys hear anything about that?"

Clarke and Mick shook their heads together.

"It's news to me," Mick said, "but that doesn't surprise me. Inter-department communication has been...sketchy over the last few days. Sending out memos wasn't exactly a big priority when your police force is operating at a third of its strength."

"...that's left only _five _officers to supervise the entire population of the shelter now," Rebecca was saying, a note of editorial outrage creeping into her tone. "As you can probably imagine, problems have started to rear their ugly heads. Arguments are frequent, fights are common, some people have even reported being robbed while officers were _present _in the gym at the time.

"Now, I spoke to Officer Rick Beardall about these claims and he said that this is clearly an extremely difficult situation the police have found themselves in but he insists that his men are doing everything in their power to -"

A throaty howl and a scream of pain interrupted Rebecca as she promptly swung her neck around behind her. Her cameraman followed the movement, zooming in on the scene at her back.

At the far end of the gym a woman in ripped sweater had pulled one of the paramedics onto the floor and was hungrily, _greedily_ tearing strips of flesh from his neck. Blood spurted from the wound as the man writhed and shrieked beneath her. Almost at once, the people around them seemed to take notice and scrambled for safety, wailing and cursing.

"Oh my God," Rebecca gasped, out of sight.

"Jesus!" A man shouted, also not in view. "Shoot her! Fucking shoot her, Teddy!"

An officer ran into the edge of the frame, face tense and arms extended. The pistol in his hands trembled badly. He edged in closer, watching with dumfounded horror as the woman tore free a piece of the medic's chin and swallow it. Gore painted her face in a hideous mask of slick blood and gristle.

"Get away from him!" The cop ordered in a voice that quivered even more than his hands. "Get off of him _now!" _

The woman - the _creature _- refused to comply. She had moved on to the side of the man's face, chewing on his cheek like a hunk of pork roast. Blood soaked the floor, forming a pool around the man, flowing out of him like a red river overrunning its banks.

The medic had stopped screaming, stopped squirming.

"Fucking _shoot her, _Teddy!" The off-screen voice barked again.

The gun jumped in the officer's hands twice. Two holes erupted in the woman's back, spitting out short gouts of blood. The two 9mm rounds breaking through the vertebrae in her back didn't even phase the cannibal as she continued her feast, seemingly blind to everything else. Officer Teddy fired again, this round tearing through the woman's collarbone. She effected not to notice.

Derrick the Cameraman switched focus, zooming in tight on Teddy's face. The cop stood slack-jawed, his chin hanging around his chest. He looked on as the woman could be heard tearing chunks from the medic and slurping them down wetly. Teddy's eyes were so wide the lids might as well have been pinned to his forehead.

"Oh, _shit!" _The voice sounded like Derrick's. "Look out man! Behind you!"

Officer Teddy moved too slow. A dark blur hit him from behind, knocking the weapon from his hands and wrestling the cop to the ground. The camera jerked down and right abruptly, cries of agony splitting the air once more. Officer Teddy lay on the ground, thrashing his arms and kicking his legs wildly as an obese man in a blood-crusted t-shirt dug his teeth into the side of the cop's neck.

"Oh my God! _Oh my God, Derrick!" _

Derrick swung back around. Rebecca suddenly came back into view though Derrick's camerawork was remarkably abrupt and unsteady now. The frame continued to jerk and shift around the startled reporter. Rebecca had dropped her mic, she had both hands clamped over her mouth as tears poured down her cheeks and she backed away.

"Derrick! _Derrick!" _She screeched, all traces of journalistic detachment gone now. "Derrick, _what's happening?_"

Danny's brows knitted together as he noticed the man on the cot behind Rebecca had ceased twitching. Slowly, he rose up, the dusty green blanket draping his body pulling away, drifting softly to the floor. As it fell away an ash-grey face was revealed. One with rotted yellows teeth, blue lips and eyes as white as polished pearls.

"No," Michelle breathed and looked away, closing her eyes.

"Rebecca!" Derrick yelled. "Get away!"

There was just enough time for a confused, bewildered look to pass across those dark blue eyes of hers before realization dawned. Terror, hot and horrid, sparked in Rebecca's gaze quick as a lightning strike. The thing at her back roared, lurched forward and seized her shoulders. Rebecca shrieked but only for a second before the creature closed her neck in the bear-trap of its teeth and wrenched her throat free in a crimson spray.

"No! _No!" _ Derrick's shout turned to a sudden grunt and the view went wild as the camera twirled through the air. It hit the ground and rolled onto its side. The last thing it recorded was the sight of Rebecca West's press badge hitting the floor and the sound of Derrick screaming off into eternity. It rolled for three more seconds then spat static.

For a moment, there was only silence as the survivors stared at the hissing screen then Tucker carefully, almost solemnly, shut the viewfinder. Danny looked up at the faces around him. Each one appeared either ghost white and afraid or green and sick. Even hard cases like Drake and Briggs had their eyes on the ceiling or their boots respectively, working their teeth together with enough friction to cause a fire.

"Well," Sheesh said from the back row, drawing all eyes as Danny was beginning to feel the arms of uncomfortable silence wrapping around his small group, "that sucks."

"Jesus, Sheesh!" Michelle hissed, punching her fellow deputy in the arm hard enough to stagger him back a step. "Have some respect would you?"

"Ow! What? What'd I say?" A look of genuine confusion crossed his face. He rubbed his arm, frowning at Michelle as if he were a puppy she'd just kicked.

"Kids, don't make Daddy put you in time out," Danny said, pulling his cap off to brush back his damp hair. He fit into position backwards. "Okay, listen up. We've got a problem."

"No shit," Scaggs spat on the floor. "I'm pretty sure we've got more than one of those or did you just fly in now?"

"That's not what I mean," Danny rolled his eyes. "I mean what was the last thing we saw on tape? Rebecca getting ambushed but where's her body?" Danny gestured around. Bert looked down at her press badge still gripped between two fingers, grimaced, and flicked it away. "Exactly. We found the camera too but there's nobody laying within five feet of it so what happened to ol' Derrick the Cameraman?" Danny dropped his voice. "Plus remember what she said in her report? There were over _two hundred _people here. Where'd they all go?"

Everyone took a long look around. Tucker turned back to Danny and nodded as he set the camera back down. "I think you might have had the right idea about this place, Boss."

"Thanks Tuck, unfortunately that means bad news for all of us in this case. Mitch said the doors were chained shut so that means wherever those things are they're still inside the school which means that we all need to haul ass and get out of here before someone lets them know that dinner is served."

"Alright," Tucker unslung his M4, yanking back the bolt. "Let's boogie then."

"Easy there, cowboy," Briggs said, scowling as he held up a hand. "We can't just fucking run off half-cocked with our pants around our ankles and our dicks in our hands. We need to know where we're headed."

"And how we're going to get there without ending up like these poor bastards," Shivers added, giving another one of the bodies on the floor a poke with the toe of his boot.

"Knock that shit off, Private."

"Sorry Sarge," Shivers drew his foot back.

"Sounds like they were drawing extra resources to the shelter at Precinct 24," Danny said, making sure to keep his voice low, glancing over at Lieutenant Briggs. "If that was your rally point then it should be a good place for both our groups to start looking. Mick, how far is it to the station?"

"_Far,_" Mick chuckled darkly. "Farther than we can get on two legs and our store of good luck. It's almost clean across the other side of the city."

"Shit." Danny hoped that whatever otherworldly being so loved to see him suffer was enjoying the show. _That's right, laugh while you watch the ant struggle under your finger. You sick fuck. _"Well, that's a kick in the ass but it doesn't change the fact that we still have to try. If we can find -"

"_Huuuuuoooooohhhhhhnnnnnnn."_

Danny spun, one hand on his pistol, his stomach in his throat. Hands groping up the wall behind him, Thorn rose to his feet. He moaned pitifully, swaying as he grappled with his equilibrium. The pilot reached out with cold fingers, starred at Danny with dead, white eyes.

"_No," _Shivers groaned, anguished, lowering his M4. "Nah, man. Come on, Thorn."

"Clarke was right," Gilson grunted, unholstering his Sig Sauer and cocking the slide. "We should have put him down the second we found him." Gilson stomped towards Thorn as the Ranger wobbled forward with arms raised.

Suddenly, Danny thought of the video. He remembered the screams, the sounds of people shrieking in pain and fear. He recalled the way their voices had echoed in the gym, even when it was half full. Throwing himself forward, Danny leaped for his deputy's outstretched arm.

"Gilson, _no!" _

The gunshot exploded like a clap of thunder, reverberating throughout the halls as the noise of the blast bounced off the tall walls and high ceiling of the _**MacPhee Marauders **_gymnasium. Thorn's head whipped bag, blood and grey matter misting across the wall behind him as a 9mm bullet punched a hole through his left eye. The right one blinked once then Thorn teetered to one side and fell back through the open doorway.

His fingers digging into the flesh of Gilson's arm, Danny stared up at his deputy. Gilson sneered back but his brows were raised, suggesting might concerned that his commander had let his last marble roll out his ear. After another second spent considering Danny, the burly deputy tugged his arm free.

"There a problem, Boss?"

"_Shut. Up." _Danny ordered in a hoarse whisper.

He stood still, as if rooted in place, straining to hear. It seemed an impossible task at first, Danny could hear nothing but the steady drumming of blood in his ears as his body flipped a switch and violently shifted his heart into overdrive. When he finally heard it - the noise he had been dreading would follow that foolish, solitary shot - it came so abrupt that Danny thought he must have imagined it.

"Do you guys hear that?" Reggie tilted his head up. "Are those...footsteps?"

_No such luck, Danny Boy. _

Not just one pair of footsteps either but half a dozen, followed by two dozen, then three. Then three _more. _Nor were they the slow, plodding, drunken footfalls of the creatures stalking the streets outside the school. These were the hard, pounding steps of predators who scented prey. Feral, hissing shrieks followed their path up the hall.

"Jesus, Gilly," Sheesh squeezed the grip on his M4, locking the stock against his shoulder. "What'd you get us into now?"

The pounding of the footsteps grew closer and louder, seeming to rise in tempo with the frantic beating of Danny's heart. The marshal commander snapped his head left and right, searching for a way out but the only exit remained the doors they had entered through and that option vanished a second later.

Creatures came pouring through the double-doors, heedlessly trampling Thorn's corpse beneath their feet. The horde was led by a raven haired woman whose once deep blue irises had been consumed by a sea of sickly white fluid. Though her plump lips had purpled and no longer watched her vibrant crimson blazer, the blood still trickling from the dark chasm in her neck did. Rebecca West opened her mouth in a silent shriek.

More of the infected piled in behind her, pushing one another aside as more than fifty of the creatures tried to squeeze through the doors all at once. They growled and moaned, hissing, clawing and shrieking as they fought to reach the front of the pack. The zombies possessed the same sightless eyes, decayed teeth and nauseating stench as the ones outside but they were _different _as well.

Their faces hadn't paled in death, they had _melted. _Skin had peeled away in thick, wide patches, revealing the bloody muscle tendons and glistening sinew beneath. Strands of some nameless, sticky slime dripped down the creatures' flayed faces and pattered wetly across the hardwood.

Danny raised his sidearm and put two rounds through Rebecca's forehead. The reporter crumpled, fouling the steps of the infected behind her. They stumbled and fell but recovered quickly, stampeding over their fallen to reach the living. Where the other zombies had shuffled and staggered like broke-back old men, it seemed the freshly dead had retained more of their motor skills. These monsters charged with heads up and hands reaching.

"Get up the scaffolding!" Danny roared, speaking the idea almost the moment it entered his mind. "Get above them! Go! _Now!_"

He pulled the trigger twice more, dropping two more of the creatures with shots placed just beneath their eyes. More of the howling, screaming nightmares bulled their way into the gym and a torrent of automatic fire erupted around Danny but he was deaf to the clatter of shells punching through flesh and raining across the floor. All he could hear was the relentless hammering of footsteps tearing across the floor, bringing the undead ever closer.

_We can't hold them. _Danny was shocked at the calmness to that thought, the logical order with which it flowed. _There's too many of them. _A raw, blood drenched face reared up from the right. He spun and put a pair of 9mm rounds through it. _They'll sweep right over us like a wave. _Bodies that were already dead shook and jerked as a wall of molten lead tore through their torsos and limbs. Danny squeezed the trigger as fast as he could, switching targets rapidly, no longer bothering to try for head shots. _We'll drown beneath them, beneath a press of snapping jaws and frigid hands._

"We have to pull back!" Danny shouted above the rattle of gunfire. "Move it! _Movie it!" _

Switching clips, Danny risked a glance back over his shoulder. He saw Bert, Reggie and Drake all hit the first step of the scaffolding at once. Wood and metal groaned as the three men pulled themselves up onto the platform. Danny swept his head back around, already picking out targets and loosing rounds.

"Gilson! Tuck!" He felt his back hit the metal framing of the scaffold. The Sig jumped in his hand five more times before he was dry again. "Mitch, get out of there!"

For a moment, Danny didn't think his deputies had heard him - didn't think they _could _hear him - over the chatter of automatic weapon fire but then, one by one, they clicked empty and started to withdraw. He slammed another magazine into the breach as he watched the marshals fumble for clips with quaking hands as they tried to backpedal at the same time. Danny cocked the slide back, brought the Sig to bear and laid down what cover he could.

A mound of rotting bodies was steadily building in the center of the gym as the walking corpses were shredded by a seemingly endless volley of hot metal. While Danny's team pulled back, Briggs' Rangers held their ground, their M4s chewing up the zombie horde like meat in a blender. Skinned faces fountained blood as Clarke popped heads with remarkable accuracy. Next to him, Mick's shotgun blared in a smooth rhythm, blasts of buckshot knocking the creatures back, hurling them over the pile of their fallen comrades.

The dead were hungry though and cared nothing for their losses. Undeterred, the climbed over the hill of bleeding, diseased flesh and bone and came racing forward. Growling and groaning, they came forward, heedless of the horrid wounds they suffered for their determination. One broke past the others and came within five feet of Danny before he squeezed off a double-tap. The stale scent of the sickness on its breath washed over Danny and he choked as a rush of bile set the back of his throat on fire.

Reggie, Bert and Drake were negotiating their way onto the second level of the platform as the marshal deputies raced past their commander and jumped up onto the first step. The second rise of the scaffold was at least five feet further off the ground than the one below it. A quick look back showed Danny that Drake and Reggie were red-faced and straining as they tried to haul the bulky barkeep up as well.

"Boss!" Sheesh called, pointing up. "Look there!"

Following Marty's finger, Danny raised his eyes to the highest point of the scaffold. Just above the platform, maybe two feet away, was a ventilation grille set into the wall. A cursory look told Danny that it was wide enough - _just _- for the to fit through if they moved single file.

_Even a couple elephants like Gilly and Tuck could squeeze through there. _Danny pulled the trigger once more, saw a woman with stringy blonde hair go down. _If we're lucky, maybe I can wriggle my fat ass through too. _

"Go," Danny, waved Sheesh forward. "We're pulling back!" He yelled at the others. "Everybody up the scaffold!"

Out of shells, Mick was already pulling himself up onto the platform. Shotgun in one hand, he offered the other down to Clarke as the younger man was hot on his heels. The wall of protective fire crumbling, an infected in a police uniform stained with blood and worse came lurching up behind the detective. Danny spun and fired, sending a 9mm round lancing through the undead officer's temple and spiraling out the side of its head. The body slumped at Danny's feet and he found himself looking down into the runny features of Officer Teddy.

_That's two. _Danny rolled up onto the scaffold himself, felt the platform creak beneath his weight as the others hauled themselves up onto the second step with assistance from the others. _I killed two cops today. _

A hissing screech broke Danny's train of thought and he felt the entire scaffold sway as one of the infected leapt bodily up onto the first step. Still on his back, Danny aimed between his legs and fired twice. White eyes rolling into the back of a shattered skull, the creature slipped over the edge but was quickly replaced by another of the walking dead. Mick hit this one in the face with the stock of his Mossberg, audibly breaking its nose and casting the howling infected back into the crowd below.

"Move!" Danny shouted at the two detectives, picking himself up. He looked off to the side. "Briggs! Get your men out of there!"

The Rangers were pulling back but far too slowly. Scaggs and Shivers fired three-round bursts into the encroaching crowd, picking off the closest targets as Briggs stood slightly behind, reaching for another magazine. At the sound of Danny's voice, the lieutenant glance back over his shoulder, flashed the marshal an acidic stare then turned back to clap either of his subordinates on the shoulder.

"Let's move!" Danny heard Briggs shout.

Fifty or so of the undead cannibals lay heaped in the middle of the gym, bleeding across the already slick hardwood. Still more came racing in, jumping over the mound of their dead and coming on at full steam. Danny crouched and fired but the things were just too fast and he missed his target more often than not. He glanced over his shoulders, saw most of the others had already made it up to the second level now.

Briggs jumped up onto the step next to him and drove a fresh clip home. Pressing the stock against his arm he swept the carbine from left to right, firing on full auto now, knocking the relentless creatures back enough to give his men some running room. Scaggs fired the rest of his mag into the mob of teeth and nails before turning tail and moving to regroup.

"Shivers, get the hell out of there, Private!" Briggs barked at the young man after the M4 _clicked _uselessly in his hands. Scaggs hopped up beside his lieutenant, groping his vest for another clip.

A pair of the infected dropped at the barrel of Shivers' carbine, thick blood trickling out of holes dotting their foreheads. He looked back at Briggs as the lieutenant's rough cry reached him. Nodding, he turned - and froze, suddenly looking down.

Grey fingers dug into the Ranger's pant leg, pulling a ghastly face that was all white eyes and putrid yellow teeth closer. Fear and disbelief flashed across Shivers youthful face as one of the women he had kicked earlier - like a young boy might poke a dead animal with a stick - reached up and sank her teeth into his thigh. He threw his head back and unleashed a scream that must have left his throat raw and ruptured.

Danny raised his 9mm - but stopped just as quickly. The mob of undead was already overwhelming the shrieking soldier, pulling him down to the ground. Crimson faces surrounded his thrashing body. Jaws _crunched _and blood squirted out in long gouts as Shiver's limbs began to twitch.

Those wrenching, violent screams went on and on but Shivers was already dead. His body continued to twist and kick but Shivers was already dead. _He was dead the moment that thing bit him. _Danny lowered his weapon.

"S_hivers!" _Briggs stood up, stepping forward. "Goddamn it, no!"

"No, Briggs!" Danny held the fiery L.T. back with one arm. He stared into his eyes earnestly. "You can't help him now. He's already gone and you will be too if we don't get out of here _now._"

"Come on!" Tucker was yelling down at them. He leaned over the second step, an arm outstretched towards Danny. Above him, the others were climbing up onto the third and final level of the scaffolding. Gilson sat on one knee next to his friend, ripping apart the crowd with a withering stream of fire.

Danny and Briggs locked eyes. Sweat dribbled down Danny's face, fell from his chin as he felt the creatures getting closer, the only thing holding them back was the distraction of the feeding frenzy laying on the blood-slick floor. Shivers had stopped screaming.

Finally, the lieutenant shoved Danny away and rudely spat between his feet. Still sneering he slung his M4 around his neck and climbed up onto the second step. Scaggs followed though he did so uncertainly, looking back to where Shivers lay buried beneath a pile of grasping hands and snapping mouths. Ignoring Briggs, Danny reached up and took Tucker's hand, letting the big man pull him up less than a second before the creature's washed over the first level of the platform.

The seething horde hit the scaffold with the force of a wave in a squall. Wood groaned, metal bent, the entire platform swayed. Smelling the sweet scent of sweat and warm blood, the creatures, in a frenzy, began pulling themselves up onto the step below.

From the third level, Mick and Clarke opened up again. Pistol rounds peppered the infected below as the thunder of the Mossberg sent the creature's tumbling back to the ground. A second later Michelle and Sheesh joined the fray, sweeping roaring zombies from the step with bursts of automatic gunfire. Gilson drew his Sig Sauer and fired with a snarl on his face.

Danny saw Tucker reaching for his own sidearm but he waved the man off. "Get up top," he told the dark-skinned deputy. "Help Reggie with the vent."

Both men looked up to where the contractor crouched in front of the metal grille. Clearly, he hadn't needed anyone to explain the plan to him. Reggie already had a screwdriver drawn from his tool belt and was frantically working the first of four bolts loose.

With Tucker moving up, Danny ran over and clapped Gilson on the arm. "Let's move!" He spun around and put three rounds through the face of a creature reaching up towards his legs. "Come on, Mike, we have move!"

Snarling, growling in his throat, Gilson fired until he was dry before thrusting his pistol back into its holster. Turning around he let Sheesh help him up though Danny figured Gilson still supplied most of the leverage.

"_Motherfuckers!" _Briggs' maniacal roar was interrupted as his M4 did the screaming for him. A spray of bullets perforated the front lines of the moaning horde.

The scaffold buckled again, so abruptly that Danny lost his footing. He gasped as he cracked his elbow painfully against the steel frame of the platform and inhaled sharply as the entire scaffold began to drift left and right like a palm tree in a hurricane. He dug his fingers into the wood as he found himself looking over the edge.

Hundreds of the infected stood in the gym now. Almost all gathered around the base of the scaffolding, gripping the framework in their frigid hands as they jerked and pulled with impossible strength. Danny could hear bolts squealing, almost feel the legs ready to buckle.

"Shit, shit, shit!" He panted, sliding his Sig back into his holster and slowly standing up, setting his feet as he fought for purchase.

A sudden quake rolled him onto his back once more. There was a metallic screech as a pair of bolts were wrenched free. Squealing above the soulless groan of the mob, the platform lurched out from the wall. Danny heard a scream pierce his ears, threw himself to one side as a shadow went sailing past.

"_Bert!"_

Danny watched, suddenly cold, as Bert fell past the bottom step and pitched headfirst into the crowd below. Rotting arms caught him, preposterously reminding Danny of a throng of rockers, swallowing up their star performer as he thrilled them with a stage dive. Only at this concert, the crowd _actually _swallowed the lead singer.

Bert struggled but against the hands of two hundred desperately hungry infected, it was all in vain. His face was wide with horror and pain as broken teeth tore into his fleshy arms and legs. They pulled him under and the last Danny saw of Bert's face it was locked in an agonized cry.

"Boss, come on!"

Somehow, Danny found the presence of mind to look up again. He saw Michelle and Sheesh standing over him, each with an arm outstretched. From them, he turned his head to the right, saw Reggie crouched there looking into the mob below, his face slack and limp as a dead fish.

He'd worked two of the bolts free before Bert's fall and Tucker had taken over for him now as he knelt gawking. The cords of the deputy's massive biceps bulged as he clenched his teeth and pulled on the grille. He could hear the steel warping and screeching. Gilson was there in a second and with one final grunt the two men tore the vent from its moorings.

Feeling strangely outside himself, Danny reached up with arms he barely felt and let his two deputies lift him up. Numbly, he felt his feet settle on the shifting planks beneath and saw Gilson dart through the open shaft. Reggie stood stock still, practically catatonic as Tucker shoved him after the marshal. Reggie didn't fight but he wouldn't move without Tucker's pushing either. The big man crawled in after the contractor.

"Go," Danny told Michelle and Sheesh weakly, unslinging his M4. "Get out of here."

The two moved off and Danny thumbed the selector on his carbine to single fire. He sighted down the barrel, felt Mick and Clarke brush by him. They tugged at his shoulders but he ignored them. Danny looked down into that crushing press of dead faces, drained of color but filled with deep, boundless, _nothingness. _He pulled the trigger.

_They killed Bert. _He fired another round, watched the top of another skull burst. _They took him. _He pulled the trigger again. _He tried so hard to keep up. That fat old man ran himself nearly half to death just to keep pace with us. _Another face splintered into bloody ruin.

_They ate Shivers. They _ate _that boy. _The platform shifted beneath Danny's feet, he nearly slipped and fell - just like Bert - but he held his ground and the feeling of vertigo was easy enough to block out. _Christ, he wasn't even old enough to shave yet I'd bet. _Danny's next shot went wild as Briggs and Scaggs bumped him on their way past. He felt someone grab at his shoulders again but that was easy to block out as well. _He was just a kid. Just a kid. _

Strange sounds drifted to Danny's ears through the haze that had settled over his mind. Wood cracking. Concrete crumbling. Metal squealing. A voice screaming his name.

_"Danny! Danny goddamn it, move your ass!" _

Those words were the wind that blew the fog clear from his brain. He turned his head, saw Drake crouching at the edge of the vent shaft, waving him forward with his cuffed hands. Only then did Danny notice just how far the creatures had pulled the scaffold from the wall. Dust rained down as the bolts were torn from the wall and the platform pitched out, threatening to tip over.

_Oh, shit. _

Shouldering his weapon, Danny ran, toeing across the top of the scaffold as fast as he could. The platform slipped from beneath his feet and Danny launched himself through the air. He reached out with his hands, bite his lip as they banged painfully off the inside of the shaft and then there was nothing, he was falling, dropping down towards the eager hands below.

_Just like Bert_. Danny was amazed that he felt no fear.

Gravity was abruptly averted though. Warm, _living _hands closed around his wrists. The salty sweat of a warm, _living _man dripped onto his arms and he found himself looking up into Drake's face as he grunted and flexed, slowly hauling Danny back up into the vent. The marshal commander kicked at the wall, crawling up with the help of his prisoner.

Danny lay inside the vent shaft, panting nearly as hard as he Drake. When he found his breath and realized that his stomach wasn't going to jump up out of his mouth, Danny took a moment to regard the hired killer. He looked tired and scared but he managed to flash his captor one of his trademark half-smiles.

"What the hell were you thinking out there?" He asked with a soft chuckle.

_Wish I knew. _Danny just looked at the man, breathing slow and steady. He focused on the rhythm of his heart to keep from focusing on the those soulless, mindless groans drifting up into the shaft from below. _A self-proclaimed murderer just saved my ass...again. I wish I knew what I was thinking right now. _

"Let's move." He croaked instead.

Together, the two men crawled through the vent and out an opening that led onto the roof of the school. It dark as the devil's asshole outside but at least the rain had stopped. A cool breeze blew across the roof and Danny breathed deep. The autumn air did little to put out the fire in his lungs though.

"_Goddamn it!" _Briggs howled, as Danny and Drake slipped out of the shaft. He tore off his helmet and hurled it across the gravel. "I'm getting fucking sick of this place!"

Danny saw Reggie sitting near the opening of the vent, his legs pulled up to his chest and his eyes locked on the toes of his dirty work boots. Gently, carefully, he gave the man's shoulder a squeeze.

"I'm sorry, Reg," Danny sighed. "Bert was...he was brave. I wish I could have...I _should _have...done more."

Reggie watched him for a moment then shook his head. Lower lip quivering, he dropped his gaze suddenly, embarrassed. Danny could see his eyes were wet as he scrubbed at them with the back of his hand.

"Nah, there was nothing you could have done." Reggie replied. "They pulled on that thing and he just..._fell. _Bert was a good guy though. He was...he was a friend, you know?"

Danny did. He shivered, thinking about how easily it could have been anyone of his people that had just _fallen. _If anything happened to any of them - _anything - _Danny knew he'd never be able to forgive himself.

"Now what?" Michelle asked, pushing her long red hair back out of her eyes.

"We keep moving," Briggs said, pushing away from the edge of the roof. The fires of conviction burned bright in his eyes and in his voice. "We get to the rally point and barricade ourselves in. God willing, there'll be a radio there and I can find out where the rest of my people are. Then we call for a chopper and get the _fuck _out of this God forsaken place."

"Are you deaf?" Mick scowled at the Ranger. "I told you - that precinct is _halfway across the city_! Even if we had a tank I would count on us making it through whatever the hell is wandering around out there in the dark."

"We have to try," Briggs' shot back. "Or would you rather just sit on this fucking roof until someone _happens _to come looking for us?"

"Better that than _wind _up as dinner for those freaks trying to walk across the middle of the goddamn city!"

"Then we find ourselves a vehicle. You think that's going to be hard to find in a city where everybody is _fucking dead_, detective?"

Danny sat slumped against the lip of the roof, watching the two men go at each other like junkyard dogs fighting over a bone. They bumped chests, shoved, screamed, spittle flying into one another's faces. Clarke suddenly grabbed hold of his partner's arms and dragged him back just as Scaggs wrapped his L.T. in a bear hug.

The marshal knew he would have to step in soon, knew he couldn't let this get out of hand and yet, Danny found he couldn't find the strength or will to move. To speak. He just wanted to sit there and enjoy the moment of rest, savor the cool breeze drying the sweat on his skin.

Voices rose. Not just Mick and Briggs now but Scaggs and Clarke were shouting at each other. Then Gilson was there, shoving Scaggs back, getting up in his face until they were nose to nose. Michelle wrapped her fingers around the man's thick wrist, trying to pull him back but the burly deputy was a man possessed.

"That's bullshit! _You're going to get us all fucking killed!" _

"If you've got a better idea I'd like to hear it. No? Then _shut up!_"

"We'll figure something out but you need to give us a little fucking time!"

"Time? Are you kidding me? We've got no food, no water and those _things _are everywhere. How much fucking _time _do you think we have to sit around with our thumbs up our asses, sweetheart?"

"Excuse me." The smooth, quiet calmness of the new voice forced the others to silence. All eyes - even Danny's - turned towards Drake. The murderer stood, watching the others, looking impassive. "If any of you are interested...I have an idea."

Again, he flashed that crooked grin of his.

**Author's Note**: Sorry for the lag between updates. I hope the long chapter makes up for it. Hopefully the next update will come sooner than this one. Thanks for your patience, Readers! As always, please read and review.


	14. Picking The Bones

**Chapter Thirteen:****Picking The Bones**

Sarah came awake in a flash. Her skin was already slick with cold sweat, her heart already pumping at a frenzied pace, before her brain had even registered the ragged scream that tore her ears raw. Gasping for air, blinking the bleariness from her eyes, Sarah pushed herself up off the worn carpet of The Raccoon City Bullseye. Her mind reeled, her thoughts spun - what was happening? She didn't even remember laying down.

The scream ripped the air again, masculine but high-pitched and sick with stark terror. It was followed by a low, droning chorus of moans - these were sick as well but for an entirely different reason. This was the longing, soulless dirge of the infected.

The sound of those low, gurgling cries put Sarah's already pounding heart into overdrive. It hammered with such violence against her breast that she feared - for a moment - she might be going into tachycardia. That fear was swept away like a leaf in a windstorm as she realized that the groans of the undead no longer sounded muffled and distant but were startlingly clear and frighteningly close.

She jumped to her feet and saw that they were _inside. _Dozens of them came pouring through the gun shop's backdoor. Fractured, yellow fingernails clawed at tattered, bloody clothing as the creatures bumped and struggled past each other, fighting to be the first to reach their target - their _meal. _Tommy Chan stood statute-still as the mob approached, as if his shoes had been nailed to the floor. He shrieked and raised his arms as the first of the infected reached him and Sarah wondered - stupidly - why he thought that would protect him.

It didn't. The zombie seized the photographer by the shoulders, lunged forward and sank it's chipped teeth deep into his soft neck. Blood that seemed too red sprayed across a face that seemed too gray. Tommy tottered and fell, his cries going silent as his thrashing limbs were enveloped by a horde of grasping hands and eager mouths.

Eyes wide, hands clasped over her lips, Sarah stumbled back until her hip banged painfully into the counter behind her. What was going on? How had the things gotten _in_? This was impossible. Why hadn't one of the others raised an alarm?

She turned then searching for shelter, for an escape, for an _explanation _and found Harold Hargreaves. The burly security guard was seated in a chair next to the front door - and was missing roughly half of his face. A woman with greasy blonde hair stood over Hargreaves' limp body, chewing obscenely on his lower lip in a ghoul's grotesque mimicry of a lover's playful kiss.

"No," Sarah whispered, tears burning down her cheeks as she edged along the counter. "No. Nononononono!"

Cold, hard fingers gripped her shoulders digging into her skin like spurs in a horse's flanks. A shrill scream split her throat as she jumped - and found herself looking into Homer's face. It was no longer a face she recognized: the face of her teacher, her colleague, her friend. Homer's skin had taken on a cast the color of spoiled milk, his eyes were dead and hollow. The lapels of his lab coat were stained with nameless gore and even his tie, which in all the years she had known the old man had always been cocked at the same, precise angle now hung limply about his pale throat.

"_Noooooooooooooo!" _

Homer wrenched her body to his. She felt his sick, fetid breath on her face as he leaned forward, opened his mouth and said: "_Wake up..."_

... Sarah came awake in a flash. Her skin was already slick with cold sweat, her heart already pumping at a frenzied pace, before her brain had even registered the ragged scream that tore her ears raw. Gasping for air, blinking the bleariness from her eyes, Sarah pushed herself up off the worn carpet of The Raccoon City Bullseye.

Shadowy hands reached for her shoulders and like a panicked animal the girl slapped, batted and clawed at them. She kicked at the silhouette of the figure that sought to wrap her up in the darkness of its arms. She fought to scream until her lungs burst but instead found them shockingly empty. The hands caught hold of her then. Sarah gasped and choked and only when she thought of _biting _those horrible fingers did she come back to herself.

_Haven't we been spending all day trying to _avoid _being bitten?_

The thought brought with it a rush of understanding. She had been sleeping, dreaming, _nightmaring _- if that was even a word, which Sarah strongly doubted but it seemed to fit all the same. Those hands holding her shoulders weren't horrible after all. They were soft, fat, familiar hands. _Homes' _hands. Still, she couldn't breathe.

_I'm having a panic attack, _Sarah realized with the same detached calm she had once used to diagnose patients. Homer seemed to have already reached the same conclusion and gently helped guide her head between her knees. For whatever reason, the air down here was more breathable and Sarah inhaled six deep, greedy gulps of it. She blew out a harsh sigh...and started laughing.

"Haven't we been spending all day trying to _avoid _being bitten?" She muttered with her face nearly touching the floor. "Hilarious."

Rubbing her back, Homer carefully pushed his partner back up into a seated position after she had recovered her wind. Even in the dark of the shop Sarah could see the concern written all over his pudgy face as clearly as if a child had scrawled on it with a Sharpie. He started to open his mouth but Sarah cut him off, knowing all too well what the first question to climb between his lips would be.

"I'm alright," she said as her bout of the giggles subsided and she was able to breathe normally. Slowly, slowly, the thunder of blood rushing through her ears died down as well. "I'm alright. Bad dream."

_Bad dream. _That hardly seemed an accurate way to describe it. It felt too PG but it would have to do for now. Sarah wasn't interested in talking about - and reliving - every little detail of _that _particular picture show.

_It felt so real though...but I guess that's the way it is with nightmares. _

Sarah looked around, telling herself it was just to get her bearings straight again but she knew that was a lie - she had to confirm that _this _was real. It sure seemed that way. Same gutted gun store sealed up with the same makeshift barricades and barred windows. There was Tommy, curled up on the floor near the back of the counter, his leather jacket stuffed beneath his head in a poor imitation of a pillow. Harry was close by too, standing behind the counter fiddling with his pistol as usual. Sarah noticed a couple boxes of bullets laid out before the Umbrella guard.

_I guess the rioters didn't snatch up every scrap to be had after all. _

"I guessed as much," Homer said, his voice nearly as wound up as his face was. "One minute you were talking to me and the next you were dozing off on the floor. I figured it was best that we all get a little rest, save our strength." A wry grin loosened the tight muscles around his lips. "Suppose I should have known better than to think any of us would be able to get a good sleep in around here."

"What happened?" She asked with a prolonged yawn. Reaching up she closed her hands over Homer's and gently removed them from her shoulders - the international symbol for I'm Fine, Really, But Give Me A Little Space Would Ya?

"Well, you started kicking like a rabbit caught in a trap for one thing," Homer replied, dropping back onto his duff, with legs splayed and arms propped on his knees. "For another you were moaning and muttering something that I couldn't make out. I thought it was best to pull you out of whatever hole you'd fallen in."

"Thanks for that," she said sincerely then reached over and pinched her partner as hard as she could on the back of his meaty hand.

"_Ow!_" Homer cried, yanking his hand back. "What the hell was _that _for?"

"Just making sure I'm really awake."

"You're supposed to pinch _yourself_ for that."

"I have delicate skin."

"Yeah?" He grunted, shaking his hand. "Now so do I."

"Don't be such an old maid, Homes." Sarah sighed, rubbing at her eyes. "How long was I out for? I don't even remember conking off."

"Not long. Twenty, thirty minutes tops."

_Funny, feels like I could do with another twenty or thirty hours. Twenty or thirty days would be better. _Sarah groaned as she stretched stiff muscles and tried to swallow the scummy taste in her mouth. She tried to remember a time when she felt as miserable as she did now. _Probably when Larry Moss dumped me on my birthday. That was definitely a low point in the Saga of Sarah Waxer but at least I wasn't being chased by hordes of undead mutants...and mutant-mutants to boot._

In addition, Sarah was also dealing with some pretty hardcore physical exhaustion. Every part of her ached with fierceness that she wanted nothing more than to climb into a hot tub and never emerge again. Make that a hot tub with an endless buffet and an open bar for her to forget her troubles at.

_Good luck with that, sister. _Her mind chuckled. _You could buy out an entire liquor store and _still _need a healthy dose of valium or OxyContin. _

Right now Doctor Sarah Waxer was tired, hungry and on the verge of a full-fledged freakout - but that didn't mean she was entitled to one. No sir, no ma'am. She was the kid genius and these three slobs - two of them lovable, one loathable - were depending on her noggin to cook up a scheme to save all their skins. They needed her.

Sarah looked up into Homer's face and sighed. _I guess I need them too. Someone's got to do the heavy lifting around here. _

"Did I miss anything during my catnap?" Sarah asked, smoothing out her ponytail as best she could.

"Not much," Homer grunted. "Hargreaves and I rooted around this place for anything useful but we didn't scrounge up much. I found zilch but he was able to hunt up a couple boxes of ammo at least."

"That's the best news we've gotten since we arrived in town, I think. I don't suppose either one of you managed to hunt up a few dozen sandwiches and a bottle of champagne while you were at it?"

"Afraid not," Homer shrugged.

"There was a helicopter," Harry stated matter-of-factly as he went about thumping loose rounds into clips stacked on the countertop.

"Come again?" Sarah felt her ears pick up, her heart thumping with cautious hope. "I'm sorry, did you just say there was a _helicopter?_"

"What our friend there meant to say is that there _might _have been a helicopter," Homer replied with a withering look for the other man who ignored him. "If there was, it sounded faraway and the noise only lasted for a minute or two."

"Point is, doc," Harry said as he looked up from filling a magazine and reached for another empty one, "we _both _thought we heard it."

"Either way it's a detail that doesn't seem to matter much right now," Homer sighed. "It certainly didn't sound like it was anywhere within a hundred feet of us and I'm not about to go running out into the streets with a pair of binoculars to scour the skies for it in the middle of the night."

"What about the roof?" Sarah asked, looking around for a sign that would point the way. "If we could get up there -"

"Access is from the outside," Harry grunted, pushing another bullet into place with a soft _click. _"I hate to admit it but you're pal there has a point. Even if we _did _get up to the roof we have no idea where that chopper is now and even if we _did, _we have no way of signaling it. I doubt my Maglite would really do the trick."

Sighing, shoulders slumped with defeat, Sarah scrubbed her palm across her face. _Typical. _

"Ever get the feeling God is screwing with you?" She asked, not really expecting an answer. "Showing you what you want then pulling it away before you can get your hands on it?"

"Only every day of my life," Tommy murmured, eyes still closed.

"You don't count," Sarah spat, giving the little toad a sideways glance. "You don't have a soul."

Tommy yawned and raised his middle finger. Harry chuckled, caught a glance of Sarah's raised eyebrow then quickly lowered his eyes back to his work.

"Did you try the VI-COMM?" Sarah asked, squatting next to where she had set the laptop down. "If we can get an uplink established then maybe we can get some info from Barnes about this phantom 'copter of yours. Maybe they ordered those U.B.-whatever guys into the city to start looking for survivors or maybe the military finally pulled its head out of its ass and decided to get some boots on the ground to get poor bastards like us _out _of here pronto."

"Wouldn't count on it," Tommy mumbled from where he lay. "Sure wouldn't fit our run of luck lately. I think we could have horseshoes literally shoved up our asses and we'd still be knee-deep in Shitsville."

"Pessimism is such an unattractive quality, Tommy," Sarah muttered as she flipped open the VI-COMM unit.

"Hey Sarah," Tommy said, raising both middle fingers this time. "Guess what? I found another one for -"

"Shut up!" Homer hissed suddenly, climbing to his feet. "Listen. Do you hear that?"

Dread tickled its way up Sarah's spine as she strained to hear what her partner did, one finger hovering over the laptop's power button. She saw Harry's hands had frozen as well, a lone bullet pinched between his thumb and forefinger. Tommy, perhaps sensing the tension in the room, opened his eyes and looked around pensively.

"Wh-what's going on?" He mumbled as he shrugged his jacket over trembling shoulders.

"_Shhh!" _Sarah glared back at the man. "I hear it too."

The sound was soft but growing ever closer. There was a familiarity to it too, one that took Sarah a split second to recognize. The hum of an engine. The creak and grind of breaks and gears switching. The thump of tires rolling over uneven ground.

_Car. No, that engine's too loud. Something bigger. Truck, probably. _

"Others," Homer muttered, exchanging glances with the rest of them, his expression tense but hopeful.

_Maybe that's not a truck. _Sarah lost hold of her reservations, allowing her optimism to run wild. _Maybe that's a Humvee - a big, armored, hulking metal monstrosity with the words __**U.S. Army**__tattooed on the side. It'll have machine guns on the roof and fifty more like it in tow. All loaded with soldiers outfitted in the latest, greatest combat gear available. They'll be waiting with warm blankets and hot coco._

_ Just watch. Any minute now they're going to bust out the loudspeakers and shout - _

A gunshot split the quiet outside. Followed by a second and third until it sounded like a firing squad was at work. Sarah flinched and grimaced with each shot even going so far as to cover her ears before the last shot shattered the night. Some of the reports sounded similar to the ones Harry's pistol made but there were others that were deeper, rougher sounding like a lion's growl.

_A shotgun. Someone out there has a shotgun. _

"Cops?" Tommy ventured in a mouse's whisper.

"Stay down," Harry told the photographer as he slid a half dozen magazines into the pockets of his vest and belt before dropping a handful of loose bullets into his pants pocket. "Hey, docs, get out of sight." He waved them off to one side, out of view of the windows.

Homer hurried over and took Sarah by the shoulders once again. Folding up the VI-COMM, the young virologist allowed herself to be lead against the far wall. She pressed together with Homer there, out of direct view of the barred windows but still able to glance outside at an angle. Her pulse hammered beneath her jaw as she peeked outside.

All she could see from her vantage point were four pairs of legs and the lower half of a red pick-up. The legs were thick and muscular - most likely men's - covered by dusty jeans and weathered steel-toed boots. Shells clattered across the asphalt as the group opened fire on unseen targets again.

"They're other survivors," Sarah whispered as she ducked back. "What if they need our help? We sure as hell need theirs!"

_If for no other reason than the fact that they've got a working vehicle. _It was a selfish thought but Sarah figured that after all she had been through, while she might not be entitled to a full-fledged freakout, she was certainly entitled to a little selfishness. _If we can hitch a ride then maybe we can get somewhere a little more secure than a trashed gun shop. Like, I don't know, anywhere._

_ "Whooooo-weeee!_" A man's voice hollered from the other side of the glass after the gunfire had finished echoing. "Look at 'em drop, boys! Who needs to go out into the Arklay Forest to do a little hunting?" A choir of chortles answered him.

Sarah shrank a little further back from the window, her desire to go rushing to the aid of the strangers outside suddenly dried up. For one thing, they didn't sound like they were in any distress and secondly something about that voice, that _laugh, _sounded...off. Wrong. Homer's fingers tightening on her shoulders only added to her feelings of wariness and gave her an uncomfortable reminder of her nightmare.

_Not now, girl. Don't think about that now. That bad dream was bogus - this one is the real thing. _

Signing for the others to remain quiet, Harry dropped down behind the counter and quickly snuck around the otherside. Still in a crouch, he sidled over to the other side of the shop and checked the lock on the door then gave their roughshod barricade a once-over before pressing his back against the wall there. Sarah watched the security guard thumb the safety off his pistol as he poked his head up to get an eye on the streets.

"_Whoooo-weeee!" _More gunshots. More laughter. Another call of _whoooo-weeee!_

Homer lifted up just enough to peer over Sarah's head and out the window. He pulled back quickly, hissing between his teeth. The grip he had on her shoulders was bordering on painful now but she didn't dare risk raising her voice to tell Homes to let up a bit. She couldn't shake that sense of...wrongness. She could feel it hanging in the air like an invisible fog.

"_Hargreaves,"_ Homer's voice was pinched and tight, edged with nervousness. "That truck is _loaded _with stolen goods. TVs, stereos, I even see a _guitar _stashed back there. Those guys are looters!"

"I see 'em," Harry nodded calmly as he surveyed the scene outside. "There's five of them. Four plus a driver. Two are packing semi-auto handguns. The other pair are carrying a hunting rifle and a twelve gauge. Dunno if the driver's got anything on him. the fat one in the baseball cap is Mister Whoooo-weeee, I think."

Sarah shook her head. _Looters. _It was ridiculous but, for some reason, she had gotten the foolish notion into her head that the rioters and thieves were all dead by now. She never thought there were still roving crews of bandits running around, picking the bones of Raccoon City clean.

_Sure, girl, _her mind chided with one of its trademark sardonic chuckles, _no one left but people like you. Well meaning folks that just happened to get swept up in this nasty business. Nothing but good people looking to band together and help one another out. _

_ About the only thing those guys outside would help you to is a bullet through the skull before they help themselves to your wallet._ _That's if you're lucky. Man can do some pretty awful things when he thinks the rules don't apply to him anymore. _

_ "Shit!_" Harry spat as he jumped away from the window a moment before a beam of light cut a steady path across it and into the store.

Sarah pressed her body flat against the wall, Homer pulling her back a step as a second shaft of light swept their way. Tommy, unfortunately, didn't prove as swift. One of the flashlights passed right over him, bathing him in its impossibly bright glow for two impossibly long seconds before the man had the presence of mind to throw himself flat.

"Hey!" A voice that didn't belong to Mister Whoooo-weeee barked. "Hey, Ollie! I think I saw someone!"

"You didn't see shit, Freddy," Mister Whoooo-weeee replied gruffly. "I wouldn't trust your eyes if you told me the sky was blue."

"Damn it, Ollie, I'm not joking!" Freddy cried back, indignant. "There was someone in there, I swear on my wife's grave."

"The way things are going 'round here we might see that old bitch before too long." That got Mister Whoooo-weeee a chorus of laughter to rival any produced by a professional studio audience. "Alright, alright. Don't get like that. Let's take a look. Carl, check the door."

Her heart in her throat, Sarah listened as Carl's boots scrapped across the pavement outside. Beside the door, Harry shifted his weight to his other foot and raised his weapon, angling the pistol towards the frame blocked by a tower of sign boards and display racks. Sarah gasped as the door shivered in its frame then clapped her hands over her mouth. The door bucked again before Carl gave a frustrated grunt.

"Fucking thing's locked," he said. The lights moved back and forth through the store's interior slowly, methodically. It made Sarah think of the giant searchlights you always saw scanning the yard in prison movies right as the main character is making his dramatic escape.

_We might need to make one of those in a minute. _

"Really?" Mister Whoooo-weeee sounded amused. "Maybe you aren't so blind after all, Freddy." There was a brief pause and then the sound of a fingernail tapping on glass. "_Hellllllloooooooooo? _Anybody home? We're just simple travelers looking for a place to rest our heels for a bit." Laughs followed. "Actually, what we're really interested in is all those guns and ammo you're sittin' on."

"Sold out, asshole." Sarah muttered beneath her breath. "Run along and play now."

"Got any to share?" The faceless looter continued in his sing-song tone. He laughed then, his chuckle dry and humorless. "I'm not really appreciating this silent treatment you're giving me. In fact, I'm starting to get upset and you folks _realllllly _wouldn't like me when I'm upset. I'm not all that reasonable when I'm upset."

More laughs. It seemed Mister Whoooo-weeee was a real comedian.

"Not gonna answer, huh? That's not very neighborly of you." Mister Whoooo-weeee's voice took on a venomous edge. "Neither's not sharing your _fucking guns _with us! Alright, we knocked real nice and you didn't open up. I guess that just means we'll have to invite ourselves in. Carl, you've got a key, don't you?"

A shotgun blast rocked the room as a hole was punched through the door, one that took the lock clean off. A second shot followed it and Sarah had to bite down on her palms to keep from screaming. The door was shuttered and shifted as it was awkwardly shouldered open. The debris stacked against it groaned as it skidded across the floor, managing to hold but not before Carl was able to fit about a third of his body through the entrance.

In the reflected light of the flashlights outside, Sarah was able to see only snippets of the man. His blue jeans. His black jacket. His gruff, bearded face. His dark eyes widening with surprise.

"Ollie, there's people in h -"

The pistol in Harry's hands sparked twice and this time Sarah _did _scream. She was still screaming when two more shots drowned her out. The store went dark as the lights outside pulled back as soon as the first shots had sounded. Sarah heard a soft moan followed by something heavy slumping against the door, forcing it open further. A display rack holding a collection of gun oils fell from the pile of detritus and crashed to the ground. Harry scrambled towards the door, reaching for something Sarah couldn't see.

"Carl!" A new voice roared.

"They fucking shot him!" This one sounded like Freddy. "Ollie - _he's fucking dead!" _

"Son of a bitch!" Mister Whoooo-weeee bellowed. _"You motherfuckers are going to pay! You hear me?" _

Glass shattered as a storm of bullets shredded the windows. Sarah screamed again as Homer pulled her to the ground, managing to drape half of his bulk over her as rounds whizzed by overhead. She hugged the VI-COMM unit close to her body and did her best impersonation of a pancake as she heard the bullets _thud _into the walls around them.

She looked up to see Tommy hurl himself behind the counter and out of harm's way as holes opened up in the empty shelves behind him. She could hear him swearing as gunshots ripped across the countertop, one knocking the register to the floor with an almost comical _cha-ching_ sound.

"Get 'em! _Get 'em!" _Someone yelled from outside.

A heavy boom echoed through the store and Sarah glanced back to see that Harry now held the looter's shotgun. He lay on his back, blindly pumping shells through the broken windows. Shouts and curses from outside answered each blast as bullets continued to pepper the Bullseye.

A flicker of movement at the corner of her vision made Sarah look up. She caught the briefest glance of another face poking through the doorway. Leaning over Carl's prostrated corpse. She felt her heart stop as she saw the pistol held in one gloved hand.

"_Harry, behind you!" _She screamed.

The security guard turned in time to see his attacker but not fast enough to keep him from firing. The handgun flashed once, leaving a smoking hole in the ground beside Hargreaves' head. Swearing a blue streak he returned fire, sending up a spray of splinters as the looter leapt back with a sudden yelp.

"Fucker," Harry growled, cocking the slide and sending another spray of buckshot into the streets.

"We need to get out of here!" Tommy yelled, poking his head around the corner of the counter, still flat on his side.

"Are you serious?" Homer shouted back as more bullets crackled through the air. "You know what's outside!"

"Yeah and right now it's _those _assholes!" Tommy thrust a finger towards the windows before dropping low as more rounds cut across the countertop. "The things outside might have teeth but _those _assholes have _guns!_"

"He's right!" Harry shouted. "We'll have to take our chances. Stay low and get to the backdoor! It should open into an alley. We'll make a run for it!"

Needing no further prompting, Tommy scrabbled crab-like around the counter, around the corner and down the narrow hall towards a door with a glowing red _EXIT _sign above it. Homer waited for a moment longer and when a lull in the gunfire finally came he hauled Sarah to her feet and together they crouch-ran towards the same destination. She had been clutching the VI-COMM so tightly to her chest, Sarah thought it might have melded itself permanently to her skin.

When they reached the door, Sarah looked back to see that Harry was with them, the shotgun still clenched in his fists, blood was dripping down his left arm but she couldn't see any wound. Hands shaking, Tommy managed to unlock the rear exit and was out the door like a shot before it was even fully open.

Raised voices and a heavy crash made Sarah turn her attention back into the store as Homer took off after the photographer. Two men jostled and pushed the door in, shoving the barricade aside. They stumbled into the room, struggled to find purchase on the littered floor. One was tall and willowy, dressed in a dirty denim shirt. The other was slightly overweight and decked out in a heavy black vest and wool hat. A third man followed on their heels, Mister Whoooo-weeee, in his Yankees ball cap, a hunting rifle cradled in his arms.

Harry spun and loosed a single round from the twelve gauge that sent Black Vest sailing a foot backwards before he slammed into a display of Gortex gloves that snapped like a reed beneath his bulk. He hit the ground with a soft _thump_, smoke rising from the folds of his vest.

Tall and Willowy dove for shelter behind the counter as Harry scattered buckshot across where he had been standing only seconds before. Mister Whoooo-weeee growled something Sarah didn't hear and before disappearing back through the door. Harry pulled the trigger again as the man made his exit but this time he was rewarded with only a dry, empty click.

"Shit!" He spat and tossed the twelve gauge onto the floor, drawing his pistol and popping off two rounds at Tall and Willowy before the looter dropped behind the counter again. "Go! Get out of here!"

Sarah ran, pushing open the door and looking back to make sure that Harry was still with her. Gunshots rang out from the store's interior, tearing across the carpet as if following a step behind the security guard. Then he was slamming into her, pushing her outside to where the rain had stopped falling. Together they ran down a short set of stairs and then they were hot on the heels of Tommy and Homer as they raced through an alley heavy with the pungent stench of wet garbage.

"Stop!" Homer roared in Tommy's ear as he grabbed a fistful of the man's jacket and pressed him against the brick wall. "You've got no idea where you're going!"

"Who cares, man?" Tommy squealed, clawing at the arm restraining him. His eyes were wild as he looked from left to right for any available escape route. Sarah thought of a bear with its leg snared in a trap. "Anywhere's better than here!"

_Well, not a bear. A rat, maybe. _

Sarah jumped at the sound of a revving engine and spun in the direction of the noise. Behind them was a chain-link fence that looked back out into the streets. The red pick-up, its bed burdened with a treasure-trove of stolen booty, whipped past. The floodlights welded to its roof burned like a collection of tiny suns as it sped across the asphalt. She could hear the guttural shouts of the men it carried and saw the rays of flashlights sweeping left and right before it was out of sight.

"Oh my God," she panted. "They're looking for us."

"Of course they are," Tommy grunted, rudely shoving Homer aside and smoothing out the wrinkles in his coat. "Trigger Finger over there wasted one of their buddies. You'd be pissed too."

"Two of their buddies," Harry said, narrowing his gaze on the other man. Blood dripped between his fingers in a smooth, steady pattern. "I'm pretty sure they didn't blow the lock off that place just to walk in and ask us all to have a beer and shoot the shit with them either."

"So? Maybe if you hadn't turned their pal into Swiss cheese they wouldn't have shot that place up like the O-K Corral."

"Yeah?" Harry moved closer, pressing his chest against Tommy's, causing the shorter man to swallow hard as he backpedaled until he was pressed against the wall again. "Maybe if _you _hadn't stood their like a deer in the headlights - pardon the pun - then I wouldn't have _needed _to turn their pal into Swiss cheese!"

"Boys! _Boys!" _Sarah shouted, feeling her rice-paper thin patience start to tear. She wedged herself between the pair and shoved Hargreaves back a pace. "You can have an arm-wrestling match later to decide who's got the bigger pair but _right now _we need to get ghost.

"We've got a bunch of yahoos on our tail that are armed to the teeth. The infected will have heard those shots for sure and who knows what _else _will be drawn out by them."

"Thank you, Sarah," Homer sighed then rubbed the back of his neck. "Now...any suggestions?"

"Somewhere with sturdy doors and solid locks would be nice," she said and looked to where Hargreaves' arm was leaking across the pavement. "Somewhere with a first-aid kit would be ideal. I'll need to have a look at Harry's arm."

"I didn't even know I got hit," Harry said, looking at his bleeding arm as if noticing it for the first time. "Son of a bitch."

"The closest building from here is the bus depot," Tommy said. "It's big, three floors to hide on. All the doors are made of metal and I'd have to imagine there's a few first-aid kits lying around in case the mechanics get dinged up." He grunted and laughed a hollow laugh. "Maybe we'll even luck out and find a working bus."

Sarah nodded. "See Tommy? Doesn't it feel better to create instead of criticize?"

Harry grinned and winked at the photographer. "Your idea. You lead the way."

Tommy grimaced and went pale but he nodded solemnly and trotted out to take point. Harry followed close behind, pistol up and at the ready. Taking Homer by the sleeve, Sarah adjusted her grip on the VI-COMM laptop and hurried after the pair. As they ran out of the alleyway and across the street, Sarah heard the low rumble of a pick-up truck switching gears in the distance and felt her heart miss a beat.

_I thought I was having a nightmare before. _

The thought made her want to start laughing all over again.

Author's Note; Please excuse my protracted absence. I realize how long it's been. Hopefully I haven't lost the faith of my loyal Readers. Rest assured, I do intend to finish this project. Stay tuned for another update and, as always, please read and review.


	15. Lights Out

**Chapter Fourteen: Lights Out**

"Are you shitting me?" Sheesh asked, huffing and puffing as he trotted along on Danny's right. Drake was the individual the deputy's question was directed towards and when the man elected not to answer, Sheesh turned his focus to his boss. "He's shitting me, right Danny?"

"Afraid not, buddy," Danny replied as he led their group onward. The rain had stopped for now at least but that was no blessing as the entire street stank of wet rot. "He's telling the truth."

"Yeah but..._c'mon._" Sheesh glanced across to where Drake ran just a few steps ahead. The fact that his hands were cuffed made the hitman's gait awkward but he kept pace with the others easily. "Your old man was a _bus driver_? I just don't buy it."

Drake raised an eyebrow and glanced back at the skinny marshal. "You think being a hired killer is hereditary or something?"

"I didn't realize that being a bus driver was," Mick chimed in from somewhere close to the back of their disorganized procession. "My father was an electrician - doesn't mean I know shit about rewiring a circuit breaker."

"Believe it or not, Mick, Drake's dad was a bit of a soft touch," Danny answered as they ran on. "After his parents split, it was his father that was awarded full custody because, well, let's just say that Drake's mom wasn't exactly a woman of good repute." That earned the marshal commander a cross glance from the murderer but he went on as if he hadn't noticed. "Unfortunately a working class guy like Al Lincoln couldn't afford to take time off work to look after his son so he brought the kid to work with him. Drake's adopted family were all the drivers and dispatchers at the depot. Not to mention when Al had the time he really got a kick out of showing his kid all the ins and outs of his trade."

"I probably knew how to drive a bus before most of you knew how to drive a car," Drake said without looking back at the others.

"How could you possibly -" Sergeant Scaggs paused when a woman in a blood-spattered nightgown stepped out from between two buildings up ahead. A brief burst from his M4 interrupted the steady beat of their feet across pavement and then he found his place in the conversation again. "How could you possibly know all that? Does this guy have a biography out there or something?"

"If I do there's a good bet that Danny's the one who wrote it." Drake flashed his captor a grin that only faintly tried to veil its edge. "He's read every file, report and sticky note ever written about me."

Danny met Drake's eyes without blinking. Let the man grin all he liked, when he was shut away in a hole where he only got to see the sun for an hour a day then they'd see who was grinning like a fox in the henhouse.

Still, the bastard was right. Danny wasn't proud of it, nor would he admit it to anyone that pointed it out, but Drake Lincoln had become something of an obsession for him. The man had become Daniel Cobb's White Whale. In all his year's working as a manhunter, Danny had never before encountered someone as impossibly slippery as Drake. Just when you thought you had him all wrapped up snug in your net, you'd lift it up to discover the tricky little shit had wriggled through yet again. He was slippery, all right, and unbelievably ruthless. Every time Danny laid eyes on the hitman, even if it was just out of his periphery, he was reminded of the crime scene photos that were all but burned into his mind like a brand of bloody misery now.

Yes, Drake was his obsession because, in all his years doing this job, Danny Cobb had never ran into someone he couldn't catch. He had come up against perps that were difficult to catch, some that were even challenging to haul in, but never someone that he _couldn't _catch. So he _had _read every file, report and sticky note ever written about the man.

_I thought that if I couldn't nab him by dogging his steps then maybe I could by following his paper trail, his history. _Shuffling footsteps to the left made Danny glance up, raising his Sig in the same motion. A few feet distant a man with a gray, peeling face staggered out of an alleyway. He squeezed the trigger twice, both 9mm rounds punched through that death mask just below the right eye. Crimson mist sprayed the wall behind him and the zombie fell to the side. _So I studied him, made him my homework, my project. So what if it meant putting in all nighters, sucking down gallons of shitty instant coffee and packing on a few extra pounds? I got him, didn't I? I caught my White Whale. _

Danny knew that for the lie it was though, perhaps even before the moment he thought it up. He had only caught Drake because the man had _wanted _to be caught. He had literally walked into a Raccoon police station with his palms up. The only thing missing was the white flag swinging from his hand. That wasn't catching a fugitive in Danny's book; that was having the fish jump out of the water and into your boat.

For a moment, Danny flashed back to the interrogation room where he had found Drake seated across from him, sipping casually at a cup of coffee as if he were sitting in his living room on a lazy Sunday morning. He recalled the way the killer's eyes had met his evenly, as if he were taking Danny's measure and not the other way around. He remembered Drake's smug little grin, barely there at all. He remembered seeing the amusement in the man's eyes and the words he spoke as they held one another's gazes, steady and unblinking.

"_You're disappointed,_" Drake had said, quick and clear, without any hint of hesitation as if he had been given all day to study the man standing on the other side of the room, "_because while I might be the prey you're no longer the predator. You're disappointed because you didn't hunt me down - the Raccoon police called you and told you where I was. Most of all, you're disappointed because I'm not wearing this jumpsuit or these bracelets as a direct result of your actions_."

Truer words had never been spoken but Danny had told Drake to blow it out his ass all the same. There hadn't been a hint of a lie to anything the man had said in that small, cramped room but it was that truth that stung, that bit deep and refused to let go. Danny hadn't been prepared to have his life summed up so quickly, concisely and...pathetically.

_Is that all I am? _Danny wondered as he ran in step with the others. Their target was the lights that spelled out **TRANSIT AUTHORITY VEHICLE DEPOT.** Lights Drake had spotted standing atop the roof of Samuel MacPhee Memorial High School. _Am I just some asshole chasing after bigger assholes than me? Is that the only thing that gives my life any purpose?_

If it did, then Danny didn't like what it said about himself. He had been doing this job for _decades_. Since he'd started doing it he'd lost two wives and gained more than his fair share of gray hairs. To Danny, that had just been the price he was forced to pay to keep doing what he was good at, what he was the _best _at...but was that the _only _thing he was any good at? The only talent he possessed?

_Fuck this. _Danny scowled. _What does Drake know anyway? He gets paid to kill people and, boy, is he good at _that._ He's a professional murderer. He kills without thought, hesitation or remorse. If he can grow a conscience then I can grow roots. _

_ Where was his conscience when he shot Maria Perelli in the head? Where was his conscience when he strangled Steven DiCappo with a TV cable? _

Two of the crime scene photos burned into Danny's brain like a cattle brand rose to the front of his mind. There was a damp, dark alley and a wrecked apartment. There was a cold, pale face and a bloated, blue one. Two sets of eyes, wide and glassy, mirroring the fright each must have felt before Drake Lincoln made sure they never felt anything ever again.

Drake was a killer, pure and simple. He might dress it up behind a veneer of intelligence and charm but in the end he took money to take lives, freelancing his services to one of the biggest organized crime families in New York City. If Danny's only talent was for catching people like Drake then he thought he could live with that.

_Who's he to get inside my head anyway? _Danny focused on the back of the hitman's head, thinking that maybe if he stared hard enough he could see inside Drake's skull to what the man was thinking. _He's scum. He's a goddamn serial killer. _

Still, that piece of scum, that goddamn serial killer, was inside his head all the same - had been for the better part of two years. Drake had been on Danny's mind for so long now - dominating his thoughts, filling him with doubts - he might as well have had his own private office set up in the brain of Danny Cobb.

_What's that tell you, Danny Boy? You're one sad, sorry, sack of - _

"So we're just going to head down to the depot," Briggs' rough bark cut off Danny's paltry attempt at self-psychoanalysis. "Then we'll hope that someone left the keys in the ignition of one of the busses and if they did we'll have this fucking asshole drive us all to safety?" The Ranger nodded towards Drake who smiled back. "_That's _the plan?"

Danny glanced around at the others for a moment then nodded. "Pretty much, yeah."

"Son of a bitch," Briggs grumbled, looking away.

"Relax, lieutenant," Drake said, that smile still chiseled into his face. "Even if we can't find some wheels, at least we'll be off the streets. Your traditional bus depot is built like a fortress anyway. Provided we find ourselves in a more hospitable environment, we'll have some time to figure out what to do next."

"What if we don't find ourselves in a more hospitable environment?" Briggs countered. "What if we throw open the front doors just to find that place overrun with the freaks that killed Shivers?"

Drake studied the Ranger for a second, his smile slowly disappearing. "It's probably better to think positive."

Danny noticed that Briggs didn't seem to find that tip particularly helpful or reassuring.

He led the survivors up the street, their boots splashing through puddles that shimmered like oil beneath the glow of streetlights. When he reached the front doors Danny saw that Drake's description held true. Raccoon City's Transit Authority Vehicle Depot was a massive structure that had more in common with a three-story warehouse than a garage. The upper two floors of the depot were ringed by plate glass windows, leading Danny to reason that was where the offices of the Transit Authority's bureaucrats and paper pushers were housed. The bottom floor was made of interlocking red and black bricks which sported huge, glass-encased posters. Some showed laughing men and women in the uniforms of RCTA drivers while others depicted smiling passengers stepping off of crimson stripped buses below the slogan _A Nicer Way To Travel._

Danny was sure the posters were supposed to give the place a cozy, friendly vibe but in the lonely darkness of night they seemed creepy and foreboding. _Just like everything else in this fucking city. _

As soon as he laid eyes on the massive double-doors barring the front entrance, Danny was convinced they'd have to shoot their way in again. He tried the handle anyway and - to his surprise - the door swung inward with an almost comical haunted house creaking of hinges.

_Almost - if I wasn't already scared out of my mind that is. Jesus, I wish I was wandering into a haunted house. Ghosts might get you with a cheap scare, get you to piss your pants, but at least they don't try and _eat _you. That's right, you pussy ghosts, you don't have anything on the Raccoon City zombies. Why I bet a few shouts of "The power of Christ compels you," would have you all running for the -_

Danny paused and gave himself a mental shaking. What the hell was he thinking about? He was letting his mind wander, his focus slip. He'd been running on pure adrenaline for so long that he hadn't realized how tired he was. Or how hungry. Or how wet.

That was hardly an excuse though. He needed to stay sharp, no matter what his body was telling him. His _people_ needed him to stay sharp. Staying sharp was the difference between living and dying. For all of them.

_Keep your shit together, Danny Boy. _

He neglected that inward advice a second later when a chorus of gunshots rang out. Danny whirled around with the rest of the group and saw his own expression mirrored in the wide-eyes and sweaty, twitching features around him. First, there were only two shots - the distinctive _cracks_ of a handgun - followed quickly by two more. Then the night was alive with the deadly scream of gunfire. The reports were too numerous to count but seemed to come all at once, right on top of each other, _pop-pop-popping _as if someone had thrown a lit box of firecrackers out into the street.

_If only that was all it was. Just some dumb kid's prank. If only that was all this whole fucking mess was. A prank. _

The _pop-pop-popping _continued. The shots still coming close together and not from far off either by the sound of them. A couple of blocks at the most. The noise reminded Danny of footage he had seen on the news from war zones. The streets always seemed to be desolate, dark and deserted but the thunder of weaponry discharges was still there. Just out of sight.

_Better in there than out here. I don't want to know what those people are shooting at...especially if it's each other._

Sensing eyes on him, the marshal steeled himself and pushed forward into the gloom. As he moved inside, something pressed to the glass in the door's window drew his eye. It was a piece of paper covered in bold, black type.

**ATTENTION**

**DUE TO THE SPREAD OF THE RACCOON SYNDROME CONTAGION THIS BUILDING IS CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. THIS MEASURE IS PRECAUTIONARY ONLY. ALL RCTA PERSONNEL ARE TO RETURN HOME. PUBLIC TRANSIT SERVICES ARE SUSPENDED INDEFINITELY.**

**RACCOON CITY DEPARTMENT OF HEALTH**

"Must have been worried about the drivers spreading it to their passengers," Mick commented as he read the notice. "You could probably infect the whole city that way. Pop takes the bus home from work and brings back a gift for the wife and kids. Then the kids give it to their whole class the next day and so on and so on."

"Didn't seem to slow it down much," Michelle sniffed from somewhere behind Danny. "The whole city pretty much _is _infected."

"Hey," Reggie ventured hesitantly, "if the Department of Health boarded this place up then how come the front door isn't locked?"

_Good question._ Danny stepped into a darkness so thick it all but left him blind. _I was trying not to think about it myself, Reggie, but good question. _

Holstering his Sig Sauer, Danny felt for the grip of his M4. After a second or two of clumsily feeling along the weapon he managed to find its flashlight attachment and clicked the beam on. His light was joined a heartbeat later by several others as the rest of his party turned on their attachments. Even Reggie fished a heavy duty Maglite out his tool belt and swept it around the room.

The bars of light illuminated walls decorated with more of the same posters that gave Danny the willies, empty chairs and couches in the lobby, an old, dusty carpet and the blood spattered across it. A fat, wide swath streaked a hideous trail off into the deeper shadows.

Danny noticed something else then too. Violent, wet, ripping sounds followed by a noise that he could only think of as half-swallow and half-grunt. No, there was another noise as well, a heavy, protracted _crunching_ that came between the first two.

_Oh God. Is that..._chewing?

Cold sweat beading along his brow, Danny edged forward. There was a short staircase that led down into the lobby and he took each step gingerly, feeling the others press in around him. He could hear their strained breaths, almost feel the frantic thunder of their hearts. Each beat seemed to pump out more terror than blood.

Danny followed the streak on the carpet, his flashlight revealing more and more of that gruesome red stain. Even with all the lights around him, pushing back the shadows, Danny still felt blind. He moved softly and slowly, careful not to make any noise that might give him away. Out there, in the darkness, _something _was waiting.

The bloody trail stretched out across the floor like a dark crimson blur. It ended in an expanding pool around the body of a man dressed in a plain green shirt and black jeans. Long dark hair fanned out around a face that was whiter than a fish's belly, framing it like a black halo. Eyes that would have once shone blue now had only a hint of that light; the dull glint of marbles. The corpse's eyes were fixed to the ceiling.

Hunched over the body was a second figure. Danny's flashlight reflected off short, greasy hair that made him think of rat fur. Droplets of blood dripped down the front of its leather jacket, staining its hands. Slowly, the figure looked up, bits of gristle and gore hung from its hanging mouth as its milky eyes turned the color of marble under the glow of so many lights.

_What the fuck?_

Danny realized with a horrible, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that he had grown _used_ to looking into the cold, dead faces of the infected. He had grown _used _to seeing the ashen features, the peeling skin, even those mindless, soulless ghoul's eyes. He understood just how accustomed he had become to those nightmarish masks when he realized that this one was _different. _

This creature appeared to have..._melted. _Clumps of skin clung by a tendon to jaw and cheek bones. In some spots, entire patches of flesh had fallen away to reveal the creature's clicking mandible as it worked on chewing whatever it had ripped away from the man on the floor and where it remained intact the skin had putrefied, turning an inflamed shade of red.

Danny recoiled as he looked into that bloody demon's face. The creature rose with a wet gurgling snort, crawling over the carcass it had been feasting on, a raw, gaping hole where the man's throat had once been. For a moment, the thing just stood there staring into the wash of light tilting it's head from side to side like a curious animal. Then it's mouth fixed into a cruel rictus and the thing shrieked, lunging forward with astounding agility.

Shouts erupted on all sides of him as Danny jumped back, managing to squeeze the M4's trigger. The carbine barked twice, interrupting the infected's scream. Blood misted in the air behind the creature as it let out an impossibly human sounding gasp of surprise. The monster blinked once then slumped to its knees and fell flat on what was left of its face at Danny's feet. Bile rose to the back of his throat as he watched a mass of congealed fluids spill out of its skull and soak into the carpet.

For a long time the survivors stood there in silence. That instant of sudden terror and violence seemed to ward off conversation. It made him feel sick to look at the bleeding, broken thing on the floor but Danny found that he couldn't tear his gaze away and somehow he knew that the others were staring at it as well.

The marshal wondered if they were thinking the same thing he was. He wondered if they thought that this creature that had once walked in the skin of the man epitomized the sheer _wrongness _of Raccoon City. The pure evil of this place.

_What could do this to a person? _Danny asked himself, backing up a step as the black ooze leaking from the creature's shattered skull crept closer to his boots. _I don't know if even the Devil could have dreamed you up, pal. _

"Yeah, this place seems hospitable all right." After the long silence, Briggs' derisive snort seemed louder than the M4's report had been.

"Gilson, Tucker, take Friday and Gannon with you and search the rest of this floor," Danny said without taking his eyes off the inhuman corpse lying motionless on the floor. "Make sure all the entrances into the lobby are sealed. Michelle, you and Sheesh grab Drake and look for the entrance to the garage or parking lot. See if you can find something he can drive. If he does anything tricky or anything you _think _is tricky - shoot him in the back of the leg."

"Got it, Boss," Michelle said gamely, grabbing hold of Drake's sleeve.

"I don't get a warning first?" The hitman asked, quirking an eyebrow.

"That is your warning," Sheesh grinned, taking the man's other arm and leading him away.

"Just what are _you_ going to be doing, Cobb?" Briggs demanded, his face a thunderhead as usual.

"If it's all the same to you, lieutenant," Danny scowled, "I'm going to go sit down over there and try not to throw up."

"Why don't you guys come watch my back while I try and figure out where the fucking light switch is for this place?" Reggie chimed in, looking askance at the glowering Ranger. After a moment, Briggs' gestured for his sergeant to follow him after the contractor.

With his nerves jangling worse than wind chimes, Danny started away. Behind him, he could hear Detectives Murphy and Clarke talking as they stood over the two corpses.

"Holy shit," Mick chuckled. "I don't believe it. You see this guy? The one who got turned into buddy-bourguignon by his friend here? This is Jimmy Hernandez."

"So?" Clarke asked.

"So? Christ, you don't remember anything I tell you unless I beat it into your head. _So,_ I busted him a couple months ago. I found a kilo of coke in his trunk and charged him with possession with intent to distribute but the slimy S.O.B. made bail. I figured he would have blown town as soon as he left the courthouse."

"Small world."

"You're telling me." Mick laughed, nudging Hernandez's body with his toe. "Karma's a bitch ain't it, Jimmy?"

Disgusted, Danny shivered and turned away again.

"Hey!" Godwin roared from the other side of the room. "The Boss told you to give us a hand so quit screwing around and get your asses over here."

"Yeah yeah," Mick grunted. "Keep your panties on, Mother Superior. We're coming."

Danny listened to the men pace away as he sagged down into the cushions of a leather couch on the opposite side of where the two bodies lay. The marshal rested his M4 on a table piled with dated copies of _The Economist _and _Reader's Digest. _With a badly trembling hand, Danny snatched his cap off and ran a hand over his sparse, thinning hair. His hat was heavy with rain water and perspiration. A band of salt ran around the baseball cap, showing where he had been sweating.

_This is insane. _Danny set his cap down beside his weapon and pressed his face into his hands. He could feel his shoulders starting to shake and prayed that Reggie didn't find that light switch any time soon. He was glad for the darkness now.

_What could do that to a person? This isn't like any disease I've ever heard of. God, could we all be sick with it already and not even know it?_

_ Clarke thinks it's transmitted through the bites but he's no doctor and, besides, someone had to contract this shit _without_ getting bit. Someone had to be the first right? Who's to say we didn't all come down with it the same way. Fuck, maybe we caught the shit just by breathing it in when we were driving through town. _

Somehow Danny doubted that. His team had arrived in Raccoon days ago and whatever this virus was it seemed to go to work pretty quick. If anyone in his bunch was sick then he figured they probably would have started to show some sign of it by now.

_Then again, you're no doctor either, Danny Boy. _

It was that uncertainty, Danny knew, that was killing him inside. When he was tracking a fugitive he _knew _things: who he was looking for, who they might turn to, where'd they'd run. When he found them he _knew _things: how to hit their hideout, who was going in the front door, who would watch the back way in case they tried to sneak out. In Raccoon City though...Danny Cobb didn't know a damn thing.

_I don't know the first thing about what the fuck is going on in this city. It's like someone got drunk the other night and decided that opening Pandora's Box sounded like a good idea. _

His hands shook. His shoulders quaked. A tremor rippled through his body, turning every nerve into a live wire. A dry heave wracked his stomach. He tried to take a deep breath but it only came out as a strangled sob.

_Houston, we have a problem. You're losing it, Danny Boy. _

Panic grabbed Danny's arms with clawed hands and shook him hard. He couldn't let this happen. Not here, not now, not in front of everyone. They were depending on him. If he broke down now, all the king's horses and all the king's men wouldn't be able to put him back together again.

It was an old memory that came to Danny then. One that he kept stashed away in a shoebox somewhere near the back of his skull. He'd pulled it out a couple times before - when his stress was mounting and he felt himself starting to give beneath its weight.

Back in the day, years before Danny ever wore a U.S. Marshals badge, he'd gotten his start as a fresh-faced youth in the NYPD's academy. There had been an instructor that had spoken to his class, a man with a name he could never remember but a face he could never forget. The man had been a veteran officer and a hard-bitten old prick to boot. Most of his lessons Danny had long since forgotten but there had been one thing the sour old bastard had said that had always stuck with him.

_"I don't believe in all that post-traumatic stress shit but if you ever feel like you're about to have a breakdown then close your eyes, count to ten and tell yourself 'I'm calm,' three times. When you open your eyes again I guarantee you will be." _

The old man hadn't sounded much like he'd believed his own advice when he'd given it but it had worked for Danny in the past. He closed his eyes and started to count.

One...two...three. Inhale. _I'm calm. _Four...five...six. Exhale. _I'm calm. _Seven...eight...nine. Inhale. _I'm calm._ Ten. Exhale. _I can do this. _

Danny opened his eyes, lowered his hands and studied them for a moment. They were steady, they were strong. _I can do this._ His screaming nerves and twitching muscles had quieted. The fist in his stomach uncurled and Danny could breathe again. _I can do this. _

Reaching out, Danny scooped up his cap and slipped it back into place. He picked up his M4 and slung it across his neck. Inhale. Exhale. _I can do this. I can get us out of this. I can figure out what to do next. _

It was then that the lights came on. There was a heavy mechanical hum as row after row of bright fluorescents lit up overhead, bathing the lobby in a white, industrial glow. From some hidden recess of the building, Danny heard Reggie throw up a triumphant shout.

_Well, _Danny grinned, _that's a start at least._

"Hey Boss, we've got something for you," Godwin Tucker's voice came booming in over the radio. "From the main hall turn left and head through the double doors there. Walk straight down that hallway and take the first right. Gilly and I are waiting for you."

"Copy that." _The voice of God, come to give me good news I hope. _

It took Danny less than five minutes to track down his two deputies. He found the pair waiting for him in the Raccoon City Transit Authority's staff lounge. Like any break room it was equipped with a long dented wooden table, several battered folding chairs, a microwave which would have looked right at home in a kitchen from the 1980s, coffee maker and a collection of mugs with pieces of tape bearing their owners' names in thick black marker. Gilson stepped back out into the main hall as Tucker opened the fridge for Danny to take a peek.

"Looks like they were planning a retirement party before the Department of Health came by and made them close up shop," the big deputy rumbled as Danny stuck his head in.

Even though he had spent all night running for his life, watching people devoured alive and decking the halls with zombie brains...Danny couldn't stop his mouth from watering as he surveyed the spread. Two full platters of sandwiches - ham with cheddar and turkey with swiss - dominated the top shelf. On the shelf below that was a fruit plate and a veggie plate. The third shelf held two cases of sparkling water but the piece de resistance, the Crown Jewel, lay just below that.

There was a _cake._ A _chocolate cake. _A _chocolate cake _so _big _that it took up the entire lower shelf and _still _would have pressed against the edge of the fridge door when it was shut. Penned across the cake's dark and delicious surface in red frosting were the words: _Happy Retirement Teddy!_

All the food was unwrapped and untouched. Just the sight of it made Danny's stomach growl like a mad dog who'd scented red meat. He wondered when his last meal had been. Twelve hours ago? _No, probably longer. _

"Let's hope Teddy made it out of Raccoon after his party was cancelled and is living it up in the Everglades now." Danny grinned at the dark-skinned deputy. "Good find, Tuck. This'll keep us going for awhile longer. Those of us who still have an appetite anyway. You as hungry as I am?"

"More so, probably." Godwin made a short, disgusted grunting sound. "Pretty fucked up that we're talking about food in a city where the locals have taken to eating each other but I guess it's been a pretty fucked up kind of day. I wish we could have found a couple six packs in here but I'm not about to get greedy."

"You sure it's not bad karma to eat a cake with someone else's name on it?" Sheesh's voice made the other two men look up. The lanky deputy sauntered in through the doorway and pulled up a seat. "Especially someone else's _retirement _cake? Pretty rude if you're asking me."

"I seem to remember _asking you _to do something for me already," Danny grumbled, glaring at the skinny man as he spread his legs leisurely.

"Already taken care of, Boss," Sheesh nodded. "We found the garage. Michelle's there with Prince Charming right now and don't worry she's got both her eyes glued to him. I'm starting to think if Drake breathes in a way she doesn't look then our little Mitch will put a bullet through his foot just to smarten him up. She'll be fine."

"Find anything there we can use?" Tucker asked, eliciting another nod from Sheesh.

"There's two buses in there for servicing. Thirty foot ones according to Drake. Not juggernauts but they'll get us from A to B if you believe him. One's got most of its engine torn out but the other one just needed a full tire change. I sent Reggie and the dicks to give him a hand." Sheesh paused, brightened and laughed until he slapped the table. "Reggie and The Dicks! Sounds like a rock band huh?"

Danny answered him with a blank look. Tucker followed suit.

"Alright, alright, calm down guys. It's not that funny. Don't go and laugh yourselves into comas or anything. I know I'm a comic genius."

"If you're not too busy admiring your own cleverness, mind telling me why we can't just dig up the keys for one of the buses in the parking lot?" Danny grunted. "I'd rather be out of here ASAP. I like the buffet but this place gives me the creeps."

"Negatory on the parking lot, Danny." Sheesh shook his head. "It's more like a scrapyard now anyway. We spied it from the garage windows and there's nothing much to look at. The vandals used the vehicles out there for molotov cocktail target practice.

"Half the buses out there are more smoke than metal now. The other half are still burning. You had better believe that a whole bunch of people are wandering down to check out those bonfires too. You know, the kind of people that walk and eat but aren't really down for that whole breathing thing anymore."

Danny grunted and shut the refrigerator. _On second thought, maybe I'm not that hungry after all. _

"Awesome," he sighed. "Well, if we're going to get anywhere we'll need to keep our strength up. I'm going to get everyone back together here. We'll all grab something to eat and then get that bus back in shape. Tuck, get that -"

A gunshot silenced Danny. It was a lonely, solitary _bang_ that rang out loud as a thunderclap. _That came from the lobby. _The three marshal's locked eyes.

"_Shit!_"

Drawing his pistol Danny raced back the way he had come with Godwin and Sheesh on his heels. They charged out into a chaotic storm of unintelligible screaming and heated curses. Adrenaline flooding his veins, Danny brought his weapon up, sweeping left and right...then lowered it when he saw Gilson standing over the bloodied corpse of Jimmy Hernandez.

The burly marshal had his own sidearm drawn. A thin wisp of smoke drifted up from the barrel. A second smoky tendril floated towards the ceiling from the hole between Jimmy's eyes.

"_Gilson,_" Danny hissed, "what the hell are you doing?"

It appeared that Scaggs and Briggs wanted to know the same thing. The two Rangers had their M4s trained on the side of Gilson's head, both hollering and roaring. Scaggs wanted the deputy to drop his pistol before _he _got dropped. Briggs seemed content to just bellow obscenities. The two talked over one another until everything they said was lost in a frantic, wordless tumble of noise.

"I had to make sure he stayed down, Boss." Gilson nodded towards the body. He holstered his Sig and only then did the Rangers lower their weapons. "He got bit. He would have turned. Just like Thorn." The big man looked up from the carcass and Danny saw that he was actually _grinning._

_He's _enjoying _this_, Danny realized. _This city is pure madness and we're all clinging to the edge by our toes but not Mike Gilson. He's doing a cannonball right off the deep end. _

"Hey! What's going on out here?" Detective Clarke came running up behind Danny, gun in hand. "We heard the sho -"

Everything went dark. Blackness filled the hall, leaving Danny as blind as a newborn kitten. Danny understood then. Raccoon City wasn't madness. It wasn't a death trap. It was a prison. A prison with one massive execution chamber. _And no one even called lights out. _

Flashlights snapped on. The beams knifed through the darkness, illuminating pale, frightened faces and trembling hands. Danny held his breath, listening for any sign of danger but it was a struggle to hear anything over the pounding of his heart. After thirty seconds passed and no new calamity befell them, Danny dared to breathe again.

"Power went out," he muttered. "Blown transformer or something."

Danny could only imagine what state the city's electrical grid was in at the moment. With no one left to man the power stations any little glitch or malfunction could bring the entire system down. He doubted it would be long before all of Raccoon was dark...if it wasn't already.

That thought left the marshal commander feeling sick in the pit of his stomach. He was barely keeping everything together running around Raccoon City in broad daylight. If he had to do it all in the dark, not knowing what could be standing right in front of his face, reaching out for him with cold, decaying hands...Danny wasn't sure all the king's horses and all the king's men could ever put him back together again.

"We're all right," Danny sighed. "Let's just get everybody in one place and -"

The front doors bucked and banged. Metal rattled like a ghost's chains. As fast as that, the entire room was holding its breath again. Even Gilson's hand flinched back to his sidearm. The doors stopped jumping and Danny heard muffled voices in what sounded like a heated exchange on the other side.

_At least whoever's trying to get in is flesh and blood. _

"Man I wish that would stop happening," Sheesh growled. "This is turning into a bad horror movie. Cheap scares included."

_This isn't turning into a bad horror movie, Sheesh. This is a _real _horror movie. _

"It could be more survivors," Danny said, starting across the hall towards the main entrance.

"Or more looters," Clarke grumbled sourly.

"As long as they don't try and chew my hand off they're good in my books."

The path to the front doors took Danny past Lieutenant Briggs. When he tried to step around the Ranger, Briggs snapped one hand out and caught hold of Danny's arm. Even in the dark, Briggs' eyes were two cold, hard, shinning marbles.

"Your boy's cracking up, Danny," the lieutenant spat. "I've seen it happen before. Combat fatigue, post-traumatic stress, whatever the fuck you want to call it it means the same thing - he's losing it. You get your dog squared away, marshal, or I'll put him down before he can bite me."

Danny glanced down at the fingers wrapped around his arm and shoved the Ranger back a step. "Take your fucking hands off me, _lieutenant._" Giving the man one last withering look, Danny stepped up to the front doors.

Keeping his handgun at the ready, Danny flipped the bolts, pulled on the handle - and found himself staring down the bore of a 9mm pistol. He raised his hands slowly and backed away even slower.

The gun was attached to the hand of a man in a black uniform. Above that uniform was a grizzled, stubbled face marred by small scars and topped with spiky, greasy hair. Bruised circles rimmed wild, crazed green eyes.

"Easy there."

"_Shut. Up._" There was a soft _click_ as the man thumbed the hammer back.

"_Harry!_ Jesus Christ, stop!" A pair of small hands grabbed the man's thick arm, forcing the weapon down. "Are you blind or just illiterate? He's a _cop._"

Without the pistol in his face Danny was able to see the uniform had brought some company with him. The one holding the man's gun arm at his side - who might have saved Danny from having a second mouth opened up over his existing one - was a girl no older than twenty dressed in a lab coat and pair of sneakers. Stepping in hesitantly behind the pair was a short Asian man with a camera swinging around his neck and a fat bald man in a lab coat nearly as filthy as the girl's.

"Sorry about that," the girl said with a heavy sigh as the bald man shut and locked the doors. She reached up to tuck a loose strand of blonde hair behind her ear. "Harry means well he just doesn't play well with others. I'm Doctor Sarah Waxer, this is my guard dog Harry Hargreaves. That's the intrepid Doctor Homer Shields and the _thing _that keeps telling us it's a man is -"

"Tommy Chan," Clarke finished with a guffaw. "As I live and breathe. I should have known a cockroach like you would still be running around."

"Nice to see you too, Detective Clarke." Tommy winked at the detective.

"You two..._know _each other?" Sarah asked her forehead lined with confusion or surprise.

"We're acquainted," Clarke nodded. "I've had to kick Tommy out of a few places he wasn't supposed to be. I don't think he ever learned the meaning of words like _private property _or _crime scene._

"I'm Detective Marshall Clarke. My partner's here too along with three others. They're looking at fixing up one of the buses, trying to make a break for it."

"I'm just glad to see there's still some living, breathing people in the city," Sarah said. "I was starting to think we were all that's left."

"All that's left for people that haven't gone completely batshit yet anyway," Harry grunted. "Sorry for sticking my gun in your face, pal. We ran into some...unfriendly people not that long ago and, well, I've been having a long day regardless."

"Haven't we all," Danny muttered with a glance back to where Gilson stood. "Wait a minute. You said your name is _Waxer_? Doctor Sarah Waxer? I saw you on the news."

"Yeah, I'm real popular around these parts." Sarah rolled her eyes, brushed her hair back again. "If you saw me on TV then you've seen my fan club too. If you thought they were pushy before you should see them now. I'm sure they'd love to get a piece of me."

_She might be just a girl but her sense of humor hasn't fallen apart yet. Maybe that's all just part of being a child prodigy though. _Danny doubted it. He wondered if it was either a defense mechanism or if the girl was just tougher than she looked. _Probably both if she's survived this long. _

"All bad press aside, I think you know more about what's going on here than anyone else, doctor, so if you don't mind could you tell us just what the _fuck _we're dealing with here?"

"That...that could take awhile and in the end you may not like what I have to say." The young doctor blew her bangs out of her face. "There somewhere around here where we can sit and talk?"

"Of course. Just because it's the end of the world doesn't mean we don't still have a few comforts around here." Danny flashed her a sarcastic grin. "Hell, we've even got cake."

**Author's Note:** I'm back!


	16. Notes

**Chapter Fifteen: Notes**

Ruslan Yuskevich had seen many things during the war. He had watched men and women chopped into raw meat by AK-47 fire, their bodies bulldozed into mass graves the way garbage was bulldozed into a landfill. He had seen captured soldiers beaten, tortured executed en masse. He had been present at the rape of women and the murder of children who had committed no offense than having been born Serb or Croat.

Yuskevich was no stranger to slaughter. He had waded through his share of bloodbaths. Still, even he found it difficult to describe the scenes that played out on his monitors.

The U.B.C.S. drop off had gone smoothly. Umbrella helicopters entered the city's airspace flying in perfect sync, their low-impact rotors giving off little more than a soft hum, hovering just long enough to allow the troops they carried to fast-rope into Raccoon before slipping away over the horizon again. Yuskevich watched the textbook insertion and wondered if any of those men realized they had signed their own death certificate the moment their boots touched the ground.

Whether any of the mercenaries possessed such foresight or not quickly became irrelevant. Within minutes of touching down they were dying.

Alpha Team had been the first squad on the ground and, perhaps fittingly, were the first squad to suffer losses. Alpha had, by pure happenstance, fast-roped into the middle of a T-junction near the middle of the city. It was like lowering raw meat into a pit of rabid animals.

Some of the choppers were still hovering over Raccoon when the U.B.C.S. Alphas realized they were surrounded. The rabid animals had come to answer the dinner bell, to pluck the meat off the line. They arrived slowly but en masse, choking off any path of escape from the intersection. Yuskevich counted at least one hundred of the carriers with a cursory glance.

After that, the U.B.C.S. behaved exactly the way Yuskevich had anticipated they would. The mercenaries formed a defensive line - shoulder-to-shoulder, five men facing forward, five watching the rear. They shouted warnings at the infected to stop, back up, clear away. When that failed to dissuade the carriers, the Alphas yelled that they had been sent to help, to evacuate healthy survivors. When that didn't work they fired warning shots. When the infected still didn't turn tail and run...well, by then it was too late.

Alpha Team's squad leader gave the order to fire on the crowd - the only recourse still available - but for most of his men it made no difference. He had delayed too long in giving that order. The first lesson any solider learned was that hesitation gets people killed. Yuskevich saw the truth of that lesson play out across his monitors.

_They didn't understand, _Yuskevich knew. _They didn't understand what they were up against. They understood some people were sick but not so sick that they were no longer people anymore. They didn't understand that all these people had been and all they ever would be had been boiled down to a single impulse: Eat._

The screens around Yuskevich flickered as gun barrels sparked, spitting bullets uselessly into cold, dead flesh. The carriers just kept coming, walking through the hail of lead as if it were nothing more than a barrage of harsh language. By then the infected didn't have far to go. The things were already within arm's reach when the order to fire was given. Close enough to touch. Close enough to _bite._

The infected fell on the U.B.C.S. team like a storm of grasping hands and hungry mouths. Yuskevich looked on as men died screaming, torn apart, choking on their own blood, drowning beneath a flood of diseased breath and ripping teeth. Alpha Team was surrounded, overwhelmed. Slaughtered.

All within the span of ten minutes. Yuskevich opened the laptop built into his command chair and made a note of it.

_Despite their lack of speed human T-carriers are still more than formidable in large numbers. The infected appear completely unable to feel pain and are possessed of a single-mindedness that can't be deterred even in the face of overwhelming firepower. _

_ It took a group of human carriers only nine-minutes and thirty-three seconds to exterminate a squad of highly trained, well-armed men in an urban combat environment. Of course, the psychological impact the infected have on the enemy must be mentioned as well. The unnerving appearance of the carriers leads to hesitation, miscommunication and disorganization among enemy personnel further hampering their ability to mount an effective defense. _

That was just the beginning of the carnage though.

Beta Team found themselves backed up against a fence after retreating from a horde of the creatures and into an alley. They lasted longer than Yuskevich had thought, dropping a surprising number of the infected with short, controlled bursts to the head. Still, the mercenaries only had so much ammunition and were outnumbered more than ten to one. They died the same way the Alphas had.

Two members of Beat Team had the presence of mind to climb the fence when they realized the battle was hopeless but the men had given over entirely to their panic and forgot to check their corners when they exited the alley and stepped back into the street. A dozen of the creatures stumbled around the corner with open arms, only too happy to embrace the pair of U.B.C.S. soldiers.

A half an hour had passed since Watchdog had commenced and two entire squads had already been wiped out. Even Yuskevich - who had anticipated a speedy conclusion to the mission - was impressed by the progress. Still the Betas had killed a startlingly high number of the carriers and that was simply unacceptable to the B.O.N.E.S. commander.

Yuskevich made a note of it.

_Human T-carriers may not possess any of the typical weaknesses of the common soldier - such as unwanted emotional responses - and while they are capable of taking devastating amounts of punishment, those infected are still fundamentally fragile. The U.B.C.S. Beta Team managed to neutralize over thirty carriers by destroying their brains before finally being subdued - and then only because the carriers had superior numbers._

_ It is entirely possible that if Beta Team had been equipped with more men and ammunition or not found themselves boxed in by the infected they might have been able to fight their way free. The fact that these were men who had not been briefed on the vulnerabilities of T-virus subjects should be underlined when the research staff review this data. _

For Gamma Team there was no dramatic, pitched battle. No heated last stand. They hadn't even been giving the opportunity for one.

The Gammas path into the city had led them directly beneath an overpass where a pack of the Re3 series bio-organic weapons - codenamed "Lickers" by the bio-engineers for their long, ropey tongues - had chosen to make their nest. Sensing intruders in their home, the Lickers fell soundlessly on the Umbrella soldiers. It was the perfect ambush: The Gammas hadn't even been aware there was any threat until more than half their number were dead or dying.

The Re3 pack dropped from their roosts on the underbelly of the overpass, landing on the backs of the invaders. Some dug into the men with tooth and claw, savagely shredding the soldiers into little more than ground meat before their victims could voice so much as a yelp of surprise. Others clung to the ceiling, letting their lance-like tongues snake out to curl around the throats of the shocked U.B.C.S. mercenaries that only now realized danger was present.

Necks cracked. Heads were torn clean off shoulders. Blood slicked the pavement. Gamma Team died without firing a single shot.

Yuskevich made a note of it.

_Even though the Re3s were developed entirely in bio-engineering labs they appear to have adapted well to urban environments. While the Lickers hunt individually they move in clusters and appear to have developed the same instincts of many pack animals. _

_ The Re3s are fiercely territorial and when they perceive their territory to have been breached they attack in number and deploy tactics that are surprisingly sophisticated. When the U.B.C.S. Gamma Team wandered beneath an overpass where a dozen Lickers were nesting half the B. engaged the soldiers on the ground while the other half used their claws to stick to the underside of the overpass and struck with their tongues to eliminate the men who had turned their attention to the creatures on the ground. _

_ If the Re3s can be developed to hunt in groups as well as travel in them their value on the battlefield would be increased immensely. _

Delta Team had been outmatched and quickly overrun by a massive crowd of carriers in the streets. Three of the U.B.C.S. soldiers survived long enough to fight their way into an abandoned bar. Unfortunately for the trio, they hadn't noticed the infected dogs feeding on a corpse so badly ravaged that Yuskevich could no longer even place it's sex until it was too late.

The men were still struggling to catch their breath when the hounds, smelling fresh food, pounced. Powerful jaws lined with teeth as sharp as any bear-trap snapped taut around faces or tore out throats in a spray of blood and gristle. One man, his cheek flapping around near his shoulder, tried to run but one of the dogs bit into his hamstring and brought the soldier to the floor. When all three were down, the canines closed in to feed.

Yuskevich made a note of it.

_The behaviour observed in a number of infected dogs suggests that while the virus heightens aggressiveness it does not inhibit animal instincts. A pack of five dogs attacked three members of Delta Team and still knew to go for weak spots i.e. head, neck, throat. This could mean that while the virus impairs higher brain functions all together it does not replace the ingrained instincts provided by nature. _

For the next three hours Yuskevich watched similar scenes of slaughter flash across the screens arrayed in front of him.

Epsilon Team thought they had found shelter when they ducked into a metal manufacturing warehouse. The Ma2s - better known as "Chimeras" according to the briefing Yuskevich had been given prior to Watchdog - occupying the rafters there found a meal instead.

Team Theta lost only four men as it fought it's way through the streets and into an underground parking garage. All the noise they made shooting their way through the security gate disturbed the escaped K13s trying to nap inside. When the B. had finished feeding the remaining six Thetas no longer resembled anything even approaching human. Yuskevich understood then why the K13s had earned the nickname "Brain Suckers".

Like Alpha, Beta and Gamma before them, Kappa Team never made it off the streets of Raccoon. Pressed from all directions by scores of virus carriers, the U.B.C.S. formed a defensive ring firing full auto into a mob that never seemed to thin no matter how much lead was pumped into it. Yuskevich watched as one soldier unclipped a hand grenade from his vest, pulled the pin - and shrieked as one of the infected pressed through the circle to sink it's teeth into his arm. The explosive rolled from his twitching fingers, bounced across the ground and detonated in the middle of the squad.

As each scene of death and mayhem unfolded, Yuskevich took notes.

_The Ma2s are swift and agile climbers but their short legs and squat build limits their mobility on the ground. _

_ The K13s proved to be impressively fast despite their tall stature. The carapace that guards the creature's internal organs is sufficiently bulletproof. One member of Theta Team unloaded an entire clip from his M16 into the K13's shell without appearing to even injure the B.O.W. _

_ The impact the infected have on opposing forces mentally and emotionally can't be overstated. Soldiers were observed giving over to panic and breaking discipline when confronted by the infected. These findings indicate the Tyrant virus could make an effective tool in waging psychological warfare. _

Yuskevich recorded everything he saw, noting the date, time and location of each event. He documented every last detail, no matter how small or inconsequential it might be. Much of what Yuskevich wrote down would have seemed trivial or unnecessary to most but it was the tiny details that others overlooked which meant the difference between success and failure - life and death - in the field. Yuskevich was well aware that his employers measured that difference in billions of dollars.

Yuskevich thought of those men and women each time he uploaded his notes onto White Umbrella's private, encrypted server. He didn't doubt that the research staff and, certainly, the executive board would be monitoring the progress of their little science experiment as it happened. The researchers were the visionaries and the executives the financiers who had put up the capital to see those visions brought to life. Both had - for all intents and purposes - invested their lives in the results Yuskevich reported back each hour.

Yuskevich knew there were those out there who would have thought the things he had done throughout the course of his life made him a monster but the only thing Ruslan Yuskevich had ever been guilty of was following orders. Now, those men and women who gave those orders had created _real _monsters, ones of flesh and blood. What did that say about _them_?

To Yuskevich, it was a pointless question. The answer didn't matter. He cared nothing for what others thought of him. He was what the world had made him - it was as simple as that. He would do what the world had taught him he must do to survive. For now that was watch and record.

For more than three hours Yuskevich looked on as images of butchery flickered across the monitors in front of him and felt nothing. He did not cringe when one of the U.B.C.S. was pulled under a pile of the infected, crushed beneath the weight of a dozen diseased bodies, firing his rifle uselessly at the sky. He did not look away nauseated when one of the Chimera's snaked out its clawed arm, slicing through a mercenary's vest as if someone had replaced the Kevlar plates with sticks of butter, spilling his intestines out across the ground. Nor did he cry out in disgust and shut his eyes when one of the K13s clamped its mandibles around a soldier's head, effortlessly crushing his skull and sucking out everything inside.

Yuskevich just watched and meticulously documented each scene he observed. All the B.O.N.E.S. commander felt was a mild curiosity for what must have run through the mind of each squad's supervisor when they realized death was inevitable.

Did they understand they had been played, moved like a pawn on the board by an unseen, uncaring hand? Or had they wondered if there had been some catastrophic mistake? Weren't they supposed to be _special? _Surely, this couldn't be happening to_ them. _They were supervisors, they were Watchdogs. They had been _chosen _for this.

_And they would be right. They had been chosen. Chosen to die. _

Yuskevich had neither sympathy nor pity for those men. They were fools to think they could march into Hell without being burned.

_Never expect anyone to tell you the truth and you'll never be surprised. _That was a tenant Yuskevich had learned long ago back in the cold and filth of Belgrade's gutters. One he reminded himself of every day. _No one is immune to betrayal. _

Three and a half hours later and Operation Watchdog was all but complete. Yuskevich typed a series of commands into the keyboard beneath the bank of monitors and brought up the camera feeds he'd dedicated to Sigma Team's insertion point. Yuskevich had been scanning through each team according to the order they had been dropped off in. Sigma had been the last squad on the ground and after so much time Yuskevich doubted he would find more than a few abandoned M16s and bloodied U.B.C.S. vests left when he switched over the feeds.

He was wrong.

The members of Sigma Team were still very much alive. Most of them at least - Yuskevich counted eight. Eight men weaving their way through an area lined with small shops and massive warehouses, leaving a trail of destruction in their wake.

The bodies of several dozen infected lay scattered across the pavement behind the mercenaries like a trail of gruesome bread crumbs, marking the path Sigma had taken through the city. Blood pooled around heads that had popped like rotten melons. Severed limbs were heaped around blackened corpses. Swaths of charred concrete marked where grenades had been used to punch a hole through the horde.

Unlike the other U.B.C.S. teams, Sigma was wisely pulling back to the outskirts of the city rather than trying to fight their way deeper into the heart of Raccoon. Yuskevich watched the mercenaries rush between two tall, brick warehouses, jump the fence behind them and land in a field of long grass on the other side. The point-man waved the others forward and together they moved in a staggered formation to the east where a railroad track twisted it's way into deeper darkness.

_This is...unexpected. _

Yuskevich should have known there would be a complication. Watchdog had been going too well up to this point. Decades of experience had taught him that no mission was ever predictable. Even so, that knowledge did nothing to alleviate his frustration.

"Rennings," Yuskevich called over the comm. "Bring up the information on Sigma Team. Who is their designated Watchdog supervisor?"

There was a pause, a hiss of static, and then the American's voice in his ear. "Captain Christian Jensen, sir."

"Run the facial recognition software. I want to know if he's down there."

The Hawkeye had been outfitted with the latest in counter-terrorism surveillance technology. The International Computer Recognition Utility could be used to match the image of a person's face - by charting their unique facial features - against those of virtually any law enforcement database in the world. Or, in Umbrella's case, against those contained in the company's global directory. A handy tool when you wanted to keep track of your employees. Rennings had dropped the third word in the program's name so that he could cheekily refer to it as the "I See You" software.

"Scanning," the American said. "Negative, sir. Captain Jensen is not with the rest of Sigma Team."

_Dead then. Just as well...or maybe not. _

If Christian Jensen was just another cadaver in a city of many then that meant all of the Watchdog supervisors were dead. While that had been one of the mission's aims all along, right now it begged the question of how the rest of Sigma was still alive. Watchdog supervisors had been briefed on just what they would encounter when they entered Raccoon. If that information hadn't done them any good then how could men with no idea of what they'd be going up against have survived this long?

"Rennings, who's second-in-command on Sigma?"

"One second." Yuskevich could hear the communications officer typing away at his station. "Sergeant Dmitry Kuznetsov. Scanning for him now." It was only a few seconds before Rennings said, "Roger that. He's down there, sir - the one on point right now."

"What does his file say?"

"Let's see." _Click click click. _"Forty years old, six foot four, Russian national...blah blah blah...He fought for the Reds against the mujahideen in Afghanistan back in the day. When the Iron Curtain fell he immigrated to the States and bounced around with security contractors for a few years - mostly outfits that were hired out by oil firms to protect their pipelines. According to this Sergeant Kuznetsov has seen action in Sierra Leone, Nigeria, Costa Rica and Yemen before he made the jump to the U.B.C.S.

"Oh. Here's something juicy you might be interested in, sir. Kuznetsov was part of the sweeper team that led the clean-up mission at the Alaskan facility two years ago."

_So. _Sergeant Kuznetsov had been through this song and dance before. He had some experience playing with Umbrella's pets then. Apparently he had put that knowledge to better use than his superior had. _This could be bad. _

"Can they follow those tracks outside the city?"

"No, sir. The tunnel that leads through to the other side was sealed off when the quarantine was first instituted. They might be able to ram a train through the concrete wall they blocked it off with but nothing in any of their files is telling me one of them could make a passable railway engineer."

Yuskevich felt a moment's relief. They couldn't get outside the quarantine - that was good but then..._Just where the hell are you trying to, sergeant?_ The question sent a spasm of irritation creeping up the Serb's spine that made his eyes twitch in a most distasteful fashion. Yuskevich hated not knowing; not feeling in control.

"What else is out there then?"

"Not much to be honest with you, sir." Rennings' keyboard continue to _click _and Yuskevich assumed his corporal was looking over maps of the area. "There're a few cabins but then it's mostly farmer's fields straight out to the border of the Arklay Forest. Nothing they could use to get a message out. Not with the strength we're broadcasting at."

Yuskevich nodded to himself. "What B. are you detecting in that area?"

"According to the thermal sensors...survey says...Hunters. Both the 121s and the Gamma series are registering about twenty clicks from Sigma's current position."

_Hunters. _Yuskevich raised an eyebrow. The security controls in the Raccoon labs had deteriorated faster than the Umbrella brass had originally anticipated. If the Hunters were free then that meant all of the high grade B. were now on the loose in or around the city. _This isn't just a compromised facility we're dealing with here...it's a full-fledged prison break. _

His eyes twitched again as another flash of irritation set Yuskevich's skin to crawling. Of all the things he loathed - and there were many - Yuskevich could not tolerate incompetence and stupidity. What other way to describe what had led to the Raccoon outbreak? Umbrella had more money in its coffers than most countries did yet they were still responsible for the worst biological disaster in history - and now it was Ruslan Yuskevich's job to make sure no one ever found out.

_Someone fucked up royally here. _

Of all the people currently in Raccoon City - and there were precious few of those by now - Yuskevich knew that he had the most information about what was going on. Even so, despite all his briefings, despite all the data he had been given and had opportunity to collect, he knew as much as the U.B.C.S. guinea pigs did about what had led to the T-virus leak. His employers had not elected to inform him and Yuskevich had not elected to ask.

_I don't get paid to ask questions. Besides, that's the balance of command isn't it? No matter how much you know there's always someone that knows more than you. _

The Hunters were good news at least. Either Kuznetsov's team would happen across them or they would sniff out the Sigma's and take the initiative on their own. In either event, Kuznetsov and Sigma Team were living on borrowed time. Yuskevich left a space in his notes to detail how the Hunters picked them apart.

Both the 121s and the Gamma series had been engineered using reptilian and amphibian DNA. The Gammas more closely resembled the toads they had been modeled after but both were frightening long-distance jumpers and shockingly quick on their feet. According to the brief Yuskevich had read to prepare for the Watchdog op, the 121s land speed matched that of wild cheetahs.

The Hunters' codename had been aptly earned. From what Yuskevich had read, the creatures' night vision was comparable to that of most large jungle cats as well and their sense of smell allowed them to double as bloodhounds. The nine-inch bone claws the Hunters sported on each hand were just the finishing touches to the inhuman killing machines.

Yuskevich hadn't the slightest idea how the scientists could take a few cells from a toad and turn it into something as ferocious and lethal as the Hunter series but, frankly, he preferred it that way. There were some things Yuskevich was only too happy not to understand.

_So long as they're capable of wiping out Kuznetsov and his team then for all I care they could have created the mutants by waving a magic wand over the petri dish. What matters is - _

"Sir," Rennings' voice buzzed in his ear, strained with urgency. "I'm picking something up on the motion sensors. Something _big._"

_Of course you are. That's what they were designed for. _

In addition to the Hawkeye's multitude of thermal imaging devices, night vision and x-ray cameras, the ACSV was also equipped with a high-powered motion sensor. For Watchdog, it had been calibrated to register anything over a couple tons moving at speeds in excess of eighty miles per hour. It wouldn't detect someone trying to make a break for it on a ten-speed bike but if that same someone was thinking of flying the quarantine zone in a Cessna or ramming the barricades behind the wheel of a Humvee - then Yuskevich would be notified and could take appropriate countermeasures.

"Put it up on my screen."

A moment later Yuskevich was no longer watching Sigma Team dart through a field of snake grass. He was watching a bus careen through the streets. One that must have been going at a dangerous tilt to have registered on the motion detector.

The driver was frantically fishtailing and zig-zagging, hopping up onto the sidewalk and mowing over newspaper boxes and fire hydrants alike before sweeping back onto the road again. Any carriers who happened to stagger into the driver's path weren't in the way for long.

It was easy to see the reason for his or her distress. The bus was covered in a dense, shifting black mass. Yuskevich squinted, trying to make out what that dark cloud was. At more than fifty thousand feet, the images sent back to the Hawkeye's monitors lost resolution from time to time. The seething black fog choked the roof and sides of the bus.

"Enhance."

From his station in the back of the Hawkeye, Rennings punched in a series of commands and a line ran across the screen, re-digitizing the footage. Yuskevich raised an eyebrow as he finally realized what it was covering the bus, suffocating the surface of the vehicle. He heard Rennings grunt with disbelief and knew his corporal had come to the same conclusion.

"Are those...are those what I _think _they are?"

"Yes," Yuskevich replied, leaning closer towards the monitor, nodding. "That bus is covered in _crows._"


	17. A Murder

**Chapter Sixteen: A Murder**

"To Teddy," Sheesh declared, skewering a piece of cake on the end of his plastic fork and hoisting into the air in salute. "May he live long and die only once."

Danny grunted and shook his head. Clearly the horrors of Raccoon City hadn't adversely affected his deputy's sense of humor - or his appetite, judging by the way he was ravenously shoveling chocolate cake down his gullet. It was no wonder though, Danny had always been convinced that Marty Sczchinski was born crazy. It would take more than a city full of undead cannibals to send cracks running along his already twisted psyche.

"Hey, Sheesh," he said. The skinny deputy's head snapped up at the sound of his name, his cheeks, bulging with desert, puffed out in imitation of a squirrel. "Shut your cake hole."

Gobs of chocolate splattered the break room's table as Sheesh began to laugh so hard Danny was afraid - or maybe hopeful - that he might choke. He shook his head again. Funny, he thought, how someone's most endearing trait could be the same one that made you want to throttle them until their eyes popped sometimes.

"If we could get back to the subject at hand," Gilson growled, giving Sheesh an irritated glance that the other man seemed not to notice. The burly marshal was biting into a turkey sandwich the same way Ozzy Osbourne used to bite into bats - tearing pieces free with violent, sawing chomps. "If I understand this right then what you're trying to tell us is you have _no idea _what we're dealing with here?"

Danny saw Sarah close her eyes and sigh as she tucked a few strands of loose blonde hair back behind her ears. Briefly, he wondered if he looked as ragged and bone-weary as the young virologist - no, he doubted it. She had been battling on the frontline long before Danny ever showed up. He'd just had the bad timing to stumble into the fight with both eyes shut and his head up his ass.

_Lucky for my team, I dragged them all along with me. _

If anyone had the right to look like crap warmed up and kicked off the side of the road then he supposed it was Doctor Sarah Waxer. Still, he had to give her credit. The girl was hanging in there.

Leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, Danny had looked on as Sarah - with some assistance from her partner - had done her best to patiently explain the finer points of Raccoon Syndrome to the other survivors. Sometimes she had gotten a little carried away with scientific mumbo-jumbo and technical lingo that had set eyes to glazing but once she realized she was outdistancing her audience the girl had impressively reiterated everything back in layman's terms. She took questions and answered them without sugar coating facts, without pretending she had knowledge she didn't - without event he faintest waft of bullshit that Danny could detect.

Danny watched it all without speaking a word, too tired to do more than absorb what he was being told. He stood and observed and wondered if the good doctor was aware of the change that took place in her when she spoke of the virus. Her eyes brightened, her tone quickened as if each word was trying to shove past the one that preceded it, all in a hurry to get out and paint their picture. The girl's shoulders straightened as if she was shrugging off the mantle of fatigue weighing her down.

Sarah talked about the syndrome the way most girls would have talked about their boyfriends. It _excited _her, he realized as he watched her emphasize each point with animated gestures he was sure she would have been surprised to learn she was even making. As terrifying, hideous and destructive as RS was he could tell it was those same qualities that fascinated the CDC researcher. To her, it must have been something to stand in awe of; to marvel over. Danny wasn't sure how he felt about that.

_This bug has killed tens of thousands of people. No, it's done worse than that. It's stolen the _humanity _of tens of thousands of people. It's turned its victims into mindless, rotting killers. It's effectively wiped out an entire city and the only thing keeping it from running rampant is a quarantine we don't even know is still in place._

_ RS has done all that and more and here she is talking about the fucking thing like it's her own pet science project. She's survived this long...but has she seen what the virus does when you aren't just looking at it through the lens of a microscope? Did she see it devour Shivers? Did she watch as it torn Bert Ross limb from limb?_

_ No. No, you didn't Doctor Waxer. _

Danny said nothing. Everything else not withstanding, no one knew more about Raccoon Syndrome than Sarah. Their best chance at understanding what they were up against - at figuring out just what the hell had happened in Raccoon - lay in the hands of this girl, this _child prodigy_ as the media had been so fond of calling her. Danny knew exactly how that made him feel.

_Nervous. _He crossed his arms again, watching the girl stare down Gilson. _So nervous I could puke but there's no point in bitching about the cards you're dealt. You play the hand you have. _

"No," she told the burly deputy, "what I'm _trying _to tell you is that I know _exactly _what we're dealing with here."

Seated next to the young doctor was the Umbrella security guard - Hargreaves, if Danny remembered right. Sarah wore a pair of latex gloves as she stitched up the ragged hole in his shoulder with sutures she'd found in a first aid kit under the sink. Hargreaves claimed looters had shot him when they'd all been hiding out in a gun store a couple blocks away.

The wound was a through-and-through in the side of his shoulder. Hargreaves had lost a decent amount of blood but a couple sandwiches and a bottle of water had tended well enough to that. The guard had been lucky and the bullet missed the bone. A couple inches further to the left, Danny knew, and Hargreaves might have lost the use of that arm.

"Mind explaining that, doc?" Gilson asked around a mouthful of turkey and cheese.

"Not at all," Sarah replied though her eyes were on her patient as she ran needle and thread through his skin. "I _know _Raccoon Syndrome started out as an airborne pathogen. I _ know _the first people it infected were a crew of sewer maintenance workers so I _know _that's where it originated. I _know _since it infected the maintenance crew it's changed it's method of transfer to carrier-to-carrier contact only. I _know _it replicates within a host based on their metabolism. I _know _that we're dealing with the single most contagious virus on the face of the _planet _and you better believe I _know _that makes RS what we in the business call an extinction level event."

Sarah pulled the needle through one last time then snapped the thread with an annoyed flourish. Hargreaves grimaced, twitched lightly in his chair. The girl pulled out a cotton pad and bottle of rubbing alcohol from the first-aid kit and used them to sterilize her sewing job, washing dried blood from the man's arm. When she was done, Hargreaves rolled his sleeve down as Sarah snapped her gloves off and tossed them down on the table.

"What I _don't know _is how to stop the slippery little S.O.B from spreading." She sagged back in her seat, rubbing at eyes ringed by dark circles.

"We've tried to treating RS with every trick in the book, so to speak," Homer said, picking up where his partner left off. Danny had noticed that about the two researchers. They seemed to approach these conversations as if they were a relay race. "Antibiotics, retrovirals, extreme temperatures, even certain fungus - all with negative results. The virus adapts to them, it changes it's coding - it's make-up.

It's like trying to track down a fugitive who keeps changing his identity. Just when you think you've got him nailed down, he slips through your fingers again."

_Don't I know all about that._

Danny wondered what progress Drake was making in getting the bus prepped for take-off. He couldn't imagine it'd be easy to change four tires with your hands cuffed but he didn't trust the hitman to work without chains - even if he was laboring under the watchful eyes of Michelle and Mick. He had Reggie to help him - the contractor looked like he knew his way around a garage as well as he did around a construction site - and that was more than Drake deserved. The plate of food he had Clarke take in with would help the bastard keep up his strength so he had no reason to complain.

_Shouldn't be long now. Let's hope Precinct 24 is in better shape than MacPhee Memorial High. _

"You guys said you had samples of the virus though," Tucker said from his spot between Sheesh and Gilson. "You must have _some _idea about what this thing is made of. How to fight it."

"It's not that simple," Homer said, shaking his head as he snatched off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"The only samples we _had _were ones taken from patients infected with RS," Sarah said, accepting the baton from her partner now. "We never had a sample of an original copy of the virus."

"What's the difference?" Sheesh asked though is words were badly muffled as he stuffed another wad of cake between his lips.

"The difference is that RS uses its hosts' DNA to...well, the best way of phrasing it is...to build itself. Think of it like an electrical circuit: The virus invades your system then takes strands of your DNA, recodes them, and uses them as spare parts to complete its circuit. That's when symptoms show up and you start to get real hungry for raw meat. Because the virus is recoding part of your DNA that's why we see such dramatic mutations - the _zombie effect_...among others.

"Because RS uses your DNA as part of its viral structure that means that case of RS is unique to _you. _It's _your _strain of the syndrome and would look completely different from the strain that Sally down the street has."

"Mind if we stop using me as the example here, doc?" Sheesh asked. "You know, bad karma and all."

"Sorry," she said then went on. "My point is that once this virus infects a host there's no longer anything universal about it. Even if we could figure out how to treat Sally's case we still wouldn't be able to treat yo - I mean, Jimmy's case and Jimmy's case would be different than Billy's case. To come up with a vaccine - not a treatment, a vaccine - we would have to break down each host's version of the disease and by then it'd be too late for vaccination to do any good anyway."

"Not to mention synthesizing vaccines on a case by case basis is virtually impossible under the best circumstances and these are far from the best circumstances," Homer chipped in, putting his glasses back into place.

"How about we try and think positively for a change?" Clarke asked, leaning across the table so that he was face to face with Doctor Shields. "Give me the best case scenario. Let's say that - by some miracle - you were able to get to the heart of this thing, figure it out...how long would it take you to develop a vaccine?"

"If we had a BSL-4 filled with cutting edge equipment, a full compliment of research and engineering staff, an army of lawyers to navigate through the red tape _and _ a little luck? Six to eight months. Maybe."

"Basically, RS would have killed you - or worse - several hundred times by then," Sarah added.

"Fuck me," Clarke sighed staring down at the table before flicking his gaze back to the young virologist. "Wait, a minute. You said that was only to develop a vaccine. If you can't vaccinate on a case by case basis then why can't you _treat _it on a case by case basis?"

"We can't treat it _because_ the virus uses the host's genetic material against them," Homer answered. "Any treatment that would kill the virus would also kill the host. HIV and AIDS work the same way, that's why we can't cure it."

"If you've got it, it's already too late." Sarah ran her hands through her hair again and Danny could tell by the way she slumped her shoulders that this was a speech the girl was used to giving. Danny could only guess at the number of times she had been through this all before - with reporters, doctors, CDC personnel and the public that had been horrified to hear every word. "Vaccination _is _the only cure. The only way of stopping the outbreak."

"So where's the vaccine?" Briggs demanded, leaning against the far wall with Scaggs at his side. "Isn't that what the two of you were sent here to do - find a cure? Well what the fuck have you been doing since you got here? Sitting on your hands with your thumbs up your asses?"

"What we've been _trying _to do is understand this thing!" Sarah fired back, glaring at the Ranger. Her tone was sharp but Danny could see the tears in her eyes. It seemed even a genius could only take being second guessed for so long. _That's not steel in her voice. It's glass...and it's about ready to break. _"You think we just show up, press a button and _boom_ a vaccine pops out of the Magical Anti-virus Machine? Research needs to be conducted. Patient records need to be gone over. Doctors need to be consulted. Samples have to be tested and re-tested. Results need to be checked and double-checked."

"Sarah -" Homer started but Sarah didn't let him finish. Instead, she shoved her chair back and continued laying into Briggs.

"I came in here on short notice and had to deal with a _novel _virus? Do you know what that means? No, I didn't think so. That means no one in the entire _goddamn world_ has seen anything like this before, _dipshit_!" The tears were flowing now, Danny saw, clearing paths through the dirt on her cheeks. "I needed people, resources and _time _I didn't have! Maybe you would have your vaccine if I hadn't had the media and CDC cutting me off at the knees every time I turned around!"

Briggs stepped forward, leaning across the table until he was pressed nearly nose to nose with Sarah. "Why did they even send you? Look at you." To punctuate his point the lieutenant stared her up and down, from toes to tits. "You're just a pathetic, scared little girl. Your bosses actually thought you were going to be the fucking savior for this place? Maybe if you had actually _done_ _your job_ then my team wouldn't have needed to come to this fucking shithole. They're dead because of _you._"

Sarah visibly flinched at that, recoiling from the Ranger as if he'd stung her with a lash. She shut her eyes and fresh tears leaked out, running over trembling lips. Homer was out of his seat, reaching for the girl but she batted his hands away. Briggs smiled a venomous, jackals grin and opened his mouth to say more.

"That's right -"

Danny pushed off from where he was standing and shoved Briggs back a step. "You've said enough. _Back off._"

Maybe Sarah had been a little too gung-ho in how much she enjoyed talking about the virus and maybe she was supposed to be some scientific brainiac but all the brains in the world wouldn't give you an ounce of maturity. She might have been a whiz-kid but when Danny looked at Sarah all he saw was the kid.

_Briggs is right about one thing. She's just a girl. She might be the smartest girl in the world but she's still just a girl. _

A girl who'd had her judgement questioned pretty much from the moment she arrived in town. A girl who'd had to explain her actions to everybody and their uncle from what Danny had seen on the news. A girl who had obviously found herself flung into the deep end and now she was drowning.

_She doesn't deserve this. _

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" Briggs snarled, shoving back. "Touch me again and we'll see -"

Danny pressed both hands against the Ranger's vest and pushed him back another step. "You said your piece. She heard you. Let it go now."

"Let it _go_?" Briggs barked, flaring his nostrils with such force Danny was surprised steam didn't come out. "My men are _dead _because of her! I lost my entire fucking _team _because she -"

"You lost people. You're pissed off. I get it." Danny matched the lieutenant's furious, unblinking gaze. "In case you're just tuning in now though, we're _all _having a pretty shitty day. _None _of that is her fault.

"She didn't kill your men - those things outside did. You want to take out your feelings on someone then take it out on them because we're going to have to go through a whole lot more of them before we get where we're going."

"She -"

" - is just trying to survive. Same as you and me and your buddy Scaggs over there." Danny stepped away from the fuming soldier. "Like it or not those two know more about this shit than any of us here. If we stand any chance of getting out of here alive then we're going to need them. So, how about you square _your _shit away, shut your mouth, and try to learn something from what she has to say?"

Briggs stood there for a moment, puffing like a dragon ready to breathe fire and, judging by the color in his cheeks, Danny supposed he might have been ready to. The Rangers' eyes snapped between the marshal and the doctor before finally settling on Danny. He scowled at him and spat.

"Fuck you." He turned on his heel to scoop up his M4 up from where he'd left it resting against the wall. "I'm not taking orders from some fat fuck or his little crybaby girlfriend. When you're ready to get the hell out of here come find me."

Briggs stalked from the room, moving towards the garage with his boots clomping across the ground. Danny looked over to where Scaggs stood lounging against the wall with a foot propped up. The sergeant shrugged and looked away but not before Danny saw shame flash across his scarred face.

_What's the matter Sarge? Starting to think your L.T. isn't exactly the shining example of gentlemanly conduct and military discipline the commercials would have us believe? _Sighing, Danny shook his head and turned back to where Sarah stood with Homer's arm strung across her shoulders.

"Sorry about that, doc," he said, slipping into a chair next to his deputies. "Didn't mean to talk about you like you weren't here."

"Forget about it," she said, wiping at her swollen red eyes. She glanced up and managed a small, weak smile. "I'm starting to think it's good to be forgettable. Beats the hell out of being remembered with infamy."

"Let's get back on topic," Danny said, cracking open a bottle of water and taking a long drink. "You said something about needing an original copy of the virus?"

Homer nodded. He let go of Sarah's shoulders as the girl composed herself again, tucking his hands into the pockets of his lab coat.

"We can't synthesize a vaccine from samples of the virus taken from infected patients because that strain is unique to that host," he said. "We'd need to find a sample of RS in its natural environment - in its purest form. If we could get ahold of a specimen like that then we might be able to replicate the virus in a lab and we could use _those _copies to create a vaccine."

"Sounds like a lot of _ifs _to me," Gilson grunted, biting into another sandwich.

"It's a moot point now anyway." Sarah slumped back into her chair, her face in her hands. "We don't have an unpolluted specimen. We don't have any equipment to manufacture an antigen with and we're all out of time in any case. Boys, we are, as the French say, _tres fucked._"

"You're only finding out about that now?" Sheesh's smile was devoid of humor. "Welcome to the party, doc." He tipped his own bottle of water towards Sarah before taking a swallow.

"The best we can do right now is to take precautions so that none of us get infected," Homer said.

"We know, doc." Danny nodded. "Don't get bitten."

Memories of Thorn rushed through the marshal's head. The ashen cast to his skin, the pilot's dead white eyes. The way he'd staggered into the gym, a rotting, monstrous thing that had lost its last shadow of humanity. His empty, soulless moan.

_Right before Gilson put a round through his head and called the Army of Darkness down on us._ Danny instantly regretted that thought. It opened the door on too many other memories, ones he would have otherwise preferred to shut out.

"_No,"_ Sarah said quickly, fixing him with a look that was deadly serious. "You don't understand. It's not just the bites you have to worry about. _Any _exchange of tissue with someone who's infected will spread the virus. Those...those _zombies_ are literally _crawling _with disease.

"Their bites contain RS, yes, but so does their blood, their sweat, their tears, their saliva. One _scratch_ is enough to spread the contagion."

"You're shittin' me," Scaggs said, arms crossed.

"Far from it, soldier boy," Sarah replied. "One drop of infected blood contains over a million cells of the virus. Get bit, get scratched, get some of their blood in your eyes or mouth, and you're playing Russian Roulette with a bullet in every chamber."

_Christ. _Danny shivered, thinking about how close some of the infected had gotten to him. He'd felt their hands on his clothes, their teeth gnashing at his heels. _If I'd been a step slower then I'd be the one out there right now. Just one more corpse, walking the streets of Raccoon looking for someone to nibble on. _That was another thought Danny quickly slammed the door on.

"All the more reason to get out of here," Danny muttered.

"Yeah?" The photographer - Tommy Something - remarked from the other side of the table where he sat with his legs splayed across the chair in front of him. Danny had almost forgotten the man was present. He'd been quiet for so long, content to sit and fiddle with his camera. "What's your plan for getting through the quarantine fences, numbnuts?"

"As a matter of fact, we're not breaking quarantine, fuckface," Danny fired back. "We heard there's an emergency shelter set-up at Precinct 24. _That's _where we'll be going as soon as the bus is prepped. They'll have food, water, weapons and ammunition. With any luck, a working phone or radio too."

_They have to. _

"Let's hope so," Sarah grunted, drumming her fingers on the laptop she'd been lugging since entering the depot. "Unless this baby starts working again then it'll have to serve as the world's most expensive paperweight. So much for getting what you pay for."

Danny looked at the device Sarah carried around with her like a safety blanket. She'd told him the name of it but he'd forgotten it since. Danny recognized the satellite phone attached to the back of the laptop though. Whatever the mysterious piece of technology was called it must have been one hell of a powerful transmitter-receiver.

_Which begs the question why isn't the multi-million dollar communicator communicating? _Danny had been wondering that for some time now and he was no closer to an answer. He could understand the local lines being down - switchboards being overloaded and the power outage explained that. For a satellite phone to be down though, didn't that mean the satellite it was connected to had to be down as well? _If she can't get a signal on that then what hope do we have of finding a working phone line? _

Danny didn't like all the questions he was being left with. What could interfere with a satellite - short of a solar flare or asteroid smashing through the damn thing? _This city is all kinds of fucked-up. _

"Maybe we're taking the wrong approach here," Tommy said, finally setting his camera aside. "Maybe we _don't _need to make another mad dash through the mob of motherfuckers that want to have us for breakfast.

"Right before Sarah's souped-up walkie-talkie crapped out, Barnes said Umbrella was sending in their goon squad to reinforce the quarantine measures around the city. Who says they aren't going to be allowed in to start conducting rescue operations too? The WHO and CDC _have _ to be working on some kind of plan to get people who are still healthy out of here."

"Don't hold your breath on that one, buddy," Hargreaves chuckled sardonically, drawing the eyes of everyone in the room. "Rescue missions aren't exactly the UBCS' forte. Even if they were, I'm not sure you'd want those boys to be the ones that came looking for you. The UBCS only takes the meanest of the mean and the roughest of the rough. Not the kind of guys that are used to playing hero."

"How do you know so much about your employer's colorful little outfit, Harry?" Sarah quirked an eyebrow in the guard's direction. "Sounds to me like these guys are supposed to be a pretty hush-hush kind of group."

"I know about them because I tried to become one of them." Hargreaves grunted. "After I got my discharge from the Marines, a friend of mine told me about the UBCS - said it was good money, especially for security and control gigs. I tried out for them but didn't make the cut. Failed my psychological exam."

That admission drew a few stares, Danny noted.

"They find out what a dick-headed, sadistic, psycho you are or something?" Tommy asked with a satisfied smile.

"Nah," Hargreaves' grinned back. "According to them, I'm too nice of a guy. I told you, they only take the meanest of the mean and roughest of the rough. Real badasses. I wouldn't count on them to be the ones pulling our asses out of the fire here."

"We heard the chopper though," Tommy said, glancing around from Sarah to Homer to Hargreaves and back as if he were looking for confirmation. "We _all _heard it."

"It was probably one of soldier boy's," Hargreaves nodded at Scaggs. "Remind us how that went for you again?"

"We had an engine malfunction. We crashed. Things went to shit after that." The Ranger grunted. "Three other teams were sent in with ours though. It's possible that chopper you heard was one of ours. We weren't sent in here on any rescue op though. Our orders were strictly to help secure the city's barricades and assist local law enforcement with containment. Extracting survivors was never part of the job."

"Fucking typical," Tommy muttered, rolling his eyes before he picked up his camera and went back to pushing those buttons instead of everyone else's.

"Doesn't matter," Danny said. "If more of Scaggs' buddies or these UBCS guys _are _running around the city looking for survivors then the first place they'll turn up is at emergency shelter. If we want help then we're going to have to help ourselves first and our best bet at getting out of _here _is being _there _when they turn up."

"Am I missing something here?" Tommy asked, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "We've been running all over this city, dodging every kind of monster in the Freaks For Dummies Handbook, looking for safety. Seems to me that this place is pretty goddamn _safe_. We've got food and water. More importantly, those things are _outside_ and we're _inside. _Why is everyone in such a hurry to give all this up?"

"Because this is the _only_ food and water we have," Tucker said, "and we've just motored through more than half of it in one sitting."

"If we just sit tight we might never get found, Tommy." Sarah rubbed at her eyes and yawned. "_We _barely made it here in one piece and as Lieutenant Briggs is only _too _eager to tell you he lost his entire unit almost right after they touched down. I'm not too optimistic about any of the other Ranger teams fighting their way here - no offense, sergeant."

"None taken," Scaggs muttered nonchalantly.

"What we need is a way to communicate with the outside," she sighed. "We can't just _break _quarantine. One of us could have some infected blood on the soles of our shoes or God knows what. If we fly out then we risk contaminating somewhere with a much larger population and then we'll have a much larger problem on our hands to deal with.

"I need to get Barnes on the horn so I can try and get that pompous turd by the balls and convince him to send in a hot suite with a full security compliment. Then we can screen survivors for infection and get out of here safely and responsibly."

"Well, we're not going to get any of those things sitting around watching our asses grow," Danny turned around at the sound of Mick's voice. The old detective stood with his shotgun propped against one shoulder and a grin on his face. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is your final boarding call. Your chariot awaits."

Danny grabbed his M4 off the table and nodded at Mick. "After you."

The garage was large but largely empty. Oil spots and grease stains marred a floor already covered in scuff marks and bootprints. Windows ran across the far wall, obscured by a set of dusty black curtains. Tools lined the walls and spare parts filled metal shelving units that climbed almost to the ceiling. The scent of old tires and stale exhaust permeated every inch of the room.

There was room for at least ten busses in the garage but only two currently occupied maintenance bays. They were the same size and painted with the red and black stripes of the Raccoon Transit Authority standard. One stood up on a raised platform, it's engine dangling from a a length of chain a few feet away.

Reggie crouched by the rear wheel of the second, grunting as he used a tire iron to screw in the final bolt on a scarred hubcap. Michelle stood near the open driver-side door, M4 in both hands as she watched Drake checking dials and gauges behind the wheel. Briggs stood a few feet distant, watching everything with a detached, disinterested scowl.

Reggie looked up from his work as Danny and the others filed in. Snatching a rag up from where he squatted, Reggie set down the tire iron and scrubbed the grease from his hands. Danny was surprised to see the man was grinning.

"Ready to get the hell out of here?" He said and Danny was even more surprised that he sounded downright upbeat. "This big bastard's pretty much ready to roll. We got a new set of tires on him and it looks like before they closed up shop someone made sure to change the oil first. Engine looks good. We might get a smooth ride for a change, huh?"

Danny understood then. Working on the bus had been a kind of therapy for Reggie. The man had spent the better part of a day just trying to stay a step ahead of monsters no sane person could possibly comprehend. He'd seen people torn to pieces, devoured, by the same men and women he had lived next to most of his life - including one of his good friends. Reggie Brewer had been given a front row seat to watch his city implode.

Performing a tire change though - now that was something he _could _understand. That was a problem he could _solve._ That was good, honest, roll-up-your-sleeves-and-get-your-hands-dirty work. Something that was right in the wheelhouse of a blue-collared grunt like Reggie Brewer.

_At least he's found something that's helping him keep it together. _Danny gave Reggie an answering smile and reassuring clap on the shoulder. _Now if I could only just say the same thing for Gilson. _

His deputy was on edge, there was no denying that. There was also nothing Danny could do about it, not until they reached the shelter anyway. He was hoping Gilly would calm down once they were behind the RPD lines. Maybe Gilson could pull the broom-handle out of his ass when he realized he didn't need to be on guard all twenty-four hours in the day. Hyper-vigilant didn't even touch on how the brawny marshal was acting lately and the way his face kept twitching without him seeming to notice was starting to unnerve Danny.

"Keep your fingers crossed," Danny told him as he walked past, giving the man another pat on the shoulder. "A smooth ride with hot showers and a keg of cold beer at the end."

Reggie laughed. "You said it."

Danny nodded to Michelle as he walked up the steps to stand beside Drake in the driver's chair. He watched as the killer slid a key into the ignition, turned and the bus rumbled to life. Drake glanced up at him and grinned.

"Our luck is starting to change," he said. "This sucker's even got a full tank of gas. Road trip, anyone?"

"Aren't you in a chipper mood," Danny commented. "I have to say, I'm feeling pretty good myself. I bet Precinct 24 has a nice, cozy holding cell just waiting for you. It'll be like a vacation to get you out of my hair for awhile even if it's only until help shows up."

"That stings, Danny." Drake clutched his chest as if he'd just been struck with an invisible arrow. "Here I was thinking you were my biggest fan too. All kidding aside though, there is one caveat to me playing chauffeur for you all."

"Really? This should be rich."

"Well, it's more a demand made out of necessity." Drake held up his hands, stretching the cuffs apart as far as the small length of chain would allow. "If you want me to drive this thing - and the last time I checked I was the only here who knows how - then you're going to need to uncuff me. I don't know if you've ever tried to drive with your hands bound together but I'm pretty sure it's going to make taking turns damn near impossible so, unless you know of a route that'll let us get to the station on a straightaway you're going to need to take these off."

Danny looked down at Drake's proffered hands and the handcuffs cinched tight around them then back to where the killer was smiling smugly. After a moment, he offered the other man a begrudging grin of his own.

"You know what, Drake?" He fished around in his pocket, producing the handcuff key a second later. "This is one of those rare times where I'm willing to compromise with you. I guess it _wouldn't_ be fair to ask you to drive with your hands bound."

"See, Danny? This is why I like you so much. You're a reasonable man."

Danny slipped the key into the handcuffs and snapped the one locked around Drake's left wrist free...then promptly clicked it shut back around the steering wheel. He dropped the key into one of his vest pockets and zipped it closed. He grinned as Drake glared, pulling futilely at the chain, succeeding in doing nothing more than rattling the cuffs.

"There you go," Danny remarked cheerfully. "Shouldn't have any trouble making those hair-pin turns now."

"This...this isn't exactly what I meant." Drake glowered, finally letting his arm sag.

"Hey, I said I was willing to compromise with you. If you wanted more than that then you should have been more specific." Danny turned away, started back down the steps.

"You know," Drake called after him, "this is starting to border on cruel and unusual punishment!"

Danny looked over his shoulder and shrugged. "Call the cops."

"We ready to move, Boss?" Michelle asked when Danny stepped off the bus.

He nodded. "Mick and Clarke - you two ride up front. I need you to navigate for Drake. Everyone else pile in. I'll make sure it's clear outside."

_As clear as it can be anyway. _

As the others hopped on board, Danny trotted up to the massive garage door. He saw that it had been padlocked but someone - Drake or Reggie - had taken the liberty of snipping the lock off with a pair of bolt cutters they'd left beside the door. Thin, slitted-windows ran across the length of the door but their field of vision was poor. Danny pressed his face to one but could only see a small fraction of the parking lot outside. The burned out shells of a couple busses stood testament to where the rioters had taken out their frustrations on the Raccoon Transit Authority but other than that he couldn't see a thing.

_Christ. _Danny strained his eyes, twisting his neck for a better vantage. _There could be an army of those things waiting right outside for us as far as I can tell. _

"You can't see shit through those windows," Reggie said as he was about to mount the first step onto the bus. "Here. We can probably get a better view through these ones."

Reggie darted across the garage and climbed up onto one of the work benches beneath the bank of windows. The first rays of the rising sun peeked through under the hem of the heavy black curtains. Reggie reached up, yanked the dusty drapes down - and screamed as the glass exploded in a shower of glittering shards.

The morning sun was climbing higher in the sky but it was darkness that poured into the room. A thick, suffocating wind of shrieking blackness tore in through the shattered windows knocking Reg off the counter and sending him tumbling across the hard concrete floor. The thunder of beating wings sounded more like the howl of a hurricane to Danny's ears as he recognized that dark wind for what it was.

_Crows. Those are fucking _crows.

A hundred of them or more, sweeping into the garage in a swirling whirlwind of black feathers that shimmered as sleek as steel. They called to one in another in a maddening, endless screeching. Their eyes were tiny, blood-red marbles that burned as brightly as the sun outside. They fell on Reggie as he pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, descending in a frenzied tornado of smooth, black bodies.

"_Reggie!" _Danny roared.

The other man roared back - screaming his agony as beaks sharp as any knife ripped strips of flesh from his arms and face. The crows pecked at his cheeks and lips, tearing away, quivering bloody chunks of meat that they swallowed eagerly _caw_ing with pleasure. Reggie failed and swung at the birds sending some flapping for safety high above the struggling man but even more landed on his hands and arms, shredding the soft flesh with their razor-sharp maws. Through the chaotic whirlwind of obsidian feathers Danny could see the stark contrast of white bone against raw, red skin.

Reggie's screams rose until they no longer sounded like anything human.

Danny raised his M4, pulling the stock tight against his shoulder but then Godwin was at his side, pushing the barrel of his weapon back towards the floor. He grabbed Danny by the shoulder with one thick paw and dragged him back towards the bus, pressing his face against his ear, having to shout to be heard over the din of Reggie's dying and the crows' cackling.

"No, Boss!" Tuck yelled, hauling Danny up the steps and onto the bus. "We have to go! You can't hit them all!"

_I wasn't aiming at them..._

Danny watched, wide-eyed and numb, as Reggie - who'd been smiling only minutes ago - vanished in that hideous black tornado. His savaged, broken body falling out of sight in the crushing press of the flock.

_Not a flock. _The thought came with a dreamy, heady feeling as if Danny weren't really in the waking world but lost somewhere between consciousness. _A murder. A flock of crows is called a murder. _

"Get us the _fuck _out of here!" Tommy screamed from somewhere in the back and Drake seemed only too happy to oblige. The doors hissed shut and shuddered as crows slammed their plump bodies into the glass and metal, sending cracks spidering across the former. Then the whole bus was shaking, leaning sharply to one side as a wave of the feathered monsters hurled themselves against its heavy steel frame. With the smell of blood in their nostrils and the taste of it on their tongues, the crows had turned kamikaze in their efforts to prolong the feast.

"Hold onto your butts!" Drake shouted as he switched gears and stomped on the gas.

Danny nearly lost his footing as the bus lurched forward - then found himself rolling back over Tucker as Drake barreled through the garage door. Metal groaned and squealed, the bus trembled as if stood at the epicenter of a raging earthquake and then daylight was washing over them. Wincing Danny squinting, raising a hand against the light which stung his eyes after so long in the dark.

He only needed to shield his eyes against the morning light for a moment. The crows fell on the bus as it tried to make its frantic escape. Danny heard the sound of the killer birds _thump_ing down on top of the roof, looked up to see them scratching at the windows. Drake swore as the bus continued to tremble and shake each time the crows hurled themselves against the sides of the vehicle.

"Oh my God!" Sarah yelled and Danny looked up to see she had fallen into the main aisle and was starring up to where the creatures choked the back window. They had blocked it off complete, scratching and pecking, leaving nothing visible but greasy feathers and hellish red eyes. Chips and cracks ran along the glass as the crows tried to force their way in.

_We're just meat in a can to them, _Danny realized when a flash of movement caught his eye. He jerked his head to the right, where Gilson stood between two seats, bringing his carbine to bear. Hollering, Danny jumped to his feet and slammed the man's weapon back down.

"_No_! That glass is the only thing keeping them out!"

"It'll scare 'em off!" Gilson insisted, bringing the M4 up again.

Danny swore, jamming his deputies weapon against his side. "They don't look very fucking scared of us!"

Gilson glowered and growled, struggling against Danny's hold on the long-arm but stopped when Drake bellowed: "_Holy shit!"_

Danny looked over his shoulder and felt his heart stop. Black, feathered bodies clogged the windshield. The crows slammed their heads against the glass as they fought madly to gain entry. Drake was swerving wildly from left to right. Danny could feel the bus fishtailing as the hitman fought for control, fought to _see. _The bus veered and shivered violently, jumping up off its wheels as heavy impacts sent vibrations running through the floor and up into Danny's bones. The marshal tried not to think about what they were plowing through now.

"These windows aren't going to hold much longer!" Briggs shouted, keeping his weapon at the ready as he crouched beside Scaggs.

"Everybody hold on to something!" Drake spun the wheel in his hands, sweat breaking out across his brow. "I'm going to try something."

_I don't like the sound of that. _

Danny grabbed hold of a post and saw the others doing the same. They clung to poles, hand grips hanging from the ceiling or even the backs of seats. He looked around, saw faces tight with tension, hands locked in white-knuckled grips, teeth clenched in anticipation of a painful ending. Drake called for everyone to brace themselves again. Danny held his breath.

Tires squealed as Drake slammed the brakes and jerked the wheel hard to the left. The bus spun and groaned as it leaned steeply to one side. Danny saw Drake's lips pursed into a thin line, sweat slicking his face as the killer brought the bus around and up onto two wheels. Danny tightened his grip as a sense of weightlessness began to set in.

For a moment, it seemed Drake's plan was working. With the bus tilted so sharply, the crows lost their purchase and took flight. They flapped away, pounding their wings in a frenzy, fleeing the bus like rats from a sinking ship. Shrieks rose, high and piercing, as the creatures voiced their irritation.

Drake had taken the turn going too fast though and instead of gradually listing back onto its axles, the vehicle continued its drunken lean to the right. Breaks screamed, Drake cursed, and then gravity just seemed to disappear. Startled shouts erupted all around Danny as he lost his hold and found himself falling through the aisle. His head struck painfully against the plastic armrest of one seat and so he was barely aware when gravity made its return with a vengeance. Glass shattered, metal bent, people screamed and then, just as suddenly as all that occurred, everything _stopped. _

Danny, groggy and thin as his thoughts had become, realized the bus had come to a stop on its side. He could hear the creaking of a wheel still spinning, the sound of the engine giving off its death rattle. The odor of leaking gas and burnt rubber left him feeling slightly ill but maybe that was just because of the pounding in his skull.

With supreme effort, Danny found the strength to raise his head and look around. In front of him was a tangled mass of bodies - none of them moving - covered in a blanket of glass shards. Behind him, Drake had fallen out of the driver's seat, his body suspended by the arm that was still shackled to the steering wheel. Above, through the mangled windows of the bus, the sun had risen, bathing the retreating crows in golden light.

To Danny, their _caw_ing no longer reminded him of irritated whining - now it sounded more like mocking laughter. And the sounds of the approaching dead, their gurgling, dark moans sounded all too _hungry. _Their shuffling, shambling footsteps sounded all too close.

_They're coming..._

Danny reached for his M4 but the hammering in his head made staying awake more trouble than it was worth. He felt his fingertips brush the strap before he passed out. A long, black, bloodthirsty howl followed Danny down into the darkness and he knew no more.

**Author's Note:** Expect another update in the next couple weeks. As always, big ups to my fans!


	18. The Space Between

**Chapter Seventeen: The Space Between**

_It was a perfect day._

_The breeze was crisp and cool. The air around the wharf, which so frequently reeked of rusted ships and stale grease, smelled clean and salty. The leaves on the trees lining the dockyard were already starting to change color, some turning as bright and golden as the shining sun. Drake was smiling as he let that clean, salty air fill his nostrils, stepping out of the shadows cast by the dockyard's fences and into the light. _

_Drake knew it was painfully hokey that he could work nine hours, breaking his back hauling on the docks, and still be cheered by something as trivial as the weather but...well, he always _had _been something of a soft touch. Besides, even as a kid, Drake had always loved autumn best of all the seasons. He still did, so much so that Jessica often remarked - always with that trademarked crooked grin of hers - if she was ever caught doing anything illegal Drake would be the first person she'd sell out to cut herself a deal. He was her "fall guy", after all. _

_Well, she could laugh all she wanted as far as Drake was concerned. So what if he liked it a little on the colder side? In summer, especially in the city, it was either too hot to breathe or too sticky to move but fall - that was Baby Bear's porridge to Drake Lincoln: Just right. _

_So Drake moved up the street enjoying the gentle breeze and sunshine. He walked along with his backpack slung over one shoulder, his steel-toed boots crunching on the leaves that had already made their long, slow descent to the sidewalk, that goofy smile stapled to his face. Drake knew he must have looked like a Grade A dink to any pedestrians passing him by but he simply couldn't help it and frankly didn't care much for what they might think. He couldn't remember ever being as happy as he had been the past two years and after everything he'd been through - everything he'd _done _- Drake felt entitled to wear that happiness on his sleeve. _

_Sure, working as a dock laborer left Drake feeling like he'd been trundled through a washing machine a few times but at least it was honest work, with honest guys, for honest pay. That was more than he had ever been used to and certainly more than Drake ever thought he could hope for after being forced to leave his old life behind. _

_And then there was Jessica. He had Jessica now - something the dockhand still had trouble believe sometimes when he lay awake at night and looked over to see the beautiful, beautifully imperfect, woman lying next to him. That knowledge alone was enough to keep Drake smiling, even if it was thirty below and he was trudging home to her through a foot of snow. _

_Not that it was ever trudging. Drake knew what it was to trudge - through mud, sand, swamps and blood. Stomping over the pavement of New York City was a walk in the park by comparison to what he was used to. _

_The apartment Drake shared with Jess was a full six blocks from the waterfront but he made the commute every day on foot. Some days Jessica offered him the car but Drake would invariably insist on using manpower over horsepower. The roads of NYC were too congested as it was and Drake knew if he had to sit behind the wheel feeling his ass grow while he was stuck in gridlock he'd go stir crazy. _

"_I guess I'm just your classic environmentalist," he'd tell Jessica when she'd tease him about it in the morning before he left. _

"_I guess you're just a classic bullshitter," she'd laugh back, giving him a playful shove out the door. _

Well, _Drake mused, _I suppose she does have a point there.

_With the warm sunlight on his face and the cool air filling his lungs, Drake was still smiling when he felt something press firmly against his chest. He pulled up short and glanced down to see a large-knuckled hand wrinkling the fabric of his shirt. Gold and diamond rings glittered on every finger. _

"_You Drake Lincoln?"_

_He looked up at the sound of the voice, thick with a rich Irish accent. The owner of the hand - and the rings - was smiling at him but it was a snake's smile, a grin that lit the face while leaving the eyes two small, dark stones. Above those eyes was a full crop of burnt red hair and below them a spares dusting of pale orange beard. The stranger wore a pricey-looking suit, complete with gold tie and elaborate silver cross about the neck. _

_Standing behind and couple feet apart from Mr. Rings, forming a loose triangle, were two other similarly dressed men. The one on the the left was cue ball level bald with features carved out of a slab of granite. His companion on the right had a deep scar running from below his right eye, down his cheek and disappearing under his jaw, as if he had wept an acidic tear. A bracelet covered in metal rabbit's feet, clovers and Celtic symbols jingled around his wrist as the man crossed his hands in front of his waist. Both could have passed for statues for all the expression on their faces. _

_Drake studied each of the trio in turn. He had been in the business long enough to recognize Cue Ball and Charms for what they were: Bodyguards. That realization set an alarm bell to ringing somewhere in the back of Drake's mind. _

"_I might be," he answered with a friendly but uncertain grin of his own. "Who's asking?"_

"_Fredrick McShay. Maybe you've heard of me?"_

_Drake's smile faded as Mr. Rings' deepened. That was a name that was in all the papers and on the lips of every newscaster anchoring the six o'clock desk. The McShay's weren't the nice old retired couple living up the street - they were an up and coming, cutthroat Irish crime family that, because of a recent outbreak of gangland killings, the NYPD had taken a particular interest in. _

_From what Drake had read and heard, Fredrick McShay - "Fatal Freddy" as _The Post _had taken to calling him_ - _headed the upstart outfit. Even though they were apparently new on the scene, McShay and his associates were already wanted for murder, attempted murder, extortion, prostitution, smuggling and trafficking - all the flavors of pie that mobsters seemed to love to dig their fingers into. _

"_Yeah, I've heard of you," Drake nodded. "Sorry. Don't know why I didn't recognize you before." _

_He knew full well why he hadn't recognized Freddy McShay. The man's picture was plastered all over the news but he wasn't grinning in any of those photos. When they showed McShay his face was as cold and hard as the diamonds set in his rings. _

_Drake had been in the business long enough to recognize that face for what it was as well: The expression of a man who had turned death into something worse than a means to an end. He had turned it into a business. _

"_I trust you _are _Mister Lincoln then?" McShay said, lowering his hand though his grin stayed fixed firmly in place. _

"_Yeah," Drake replied hesitantly. "That's me." _

Just what the hell is this all about? _The alarm bell in Drake's head started to jangle a little more loudly. _

"_I was wondering, Mister Lincoln, if you happened to know who owns these docks?" McShay nodded to the fences lining the waterfront, pasted with flyers advertising cult film screenings at niche theaters and indie music concerts. _

_Drake chuckled nervously. "I'm just a grunt, Mister McShay. I don't worry about who's paying me so long as my check shows up on time." _

"_You work for a man named Romeo Capelli," McShay said, his smile vanishing as suddenly as it had appeared. "Maybe you've heard of him too." _

_Drake had. It was a name tied to all the reports about the McShays. The way Drake understood it, the Capellis were nearly as notorious as their Irish counterparts though as far as mafia culture went, the Capellis were considered something in the way of "vintage" gangsters. _

_They held deeper roots in the city than the McShays and still kept to the old ways of Italian-American mobster chivalry - the code of _omerta _and other hypocritical bullshit like that. Tenants such as the belief that killing to get your way was fine but prostitution and the narcotics trade were strictly taboo. According to the papers, Romeo Capelli made most of his money - the funds not generated by his handful of legitimate businesses anyway - from charging "protection" fees to a number of shops throughout New York's downtown area. _

_He had also been locked in a bloody feud with the McShays since Fredrick's recent grab for more territory. Fatal Freddy had earned his nickname in _The Post _- and shown up on the radar of New York's finest - after some of his boys had gunned down five of Capelli's soldiers outside a restaurant in Little Italy just under two weeks ago. _

So what does any of that have to do with _me_? _That bell was singing now. _

"_I don't know about that," Drake shrugged. "I might work for the man's company but that's not the same thing as working for the man himself." _

"_I'm afraid it's the same thing to me, laddy." There was no humor in McShay's smile this time. "You work for Capelli, Mister Lincoln, and that means you work for the competition. If you _work _for the competition then that _makes _you the competition." He took a step closer. "You don't want to be one of my competitors, Drake." _

_Drake narrowed his eyes. McShay was a head shorter than him but walked up with the arrogance of a man three feet taller. _Is this stumpy little puke trying to intimidate me?

"_Listen, McShay, I don't know who you think I am but -"_

"_I don't _think _you're anyone, Mister Lincoln." Freddy was smiling wider than ever. "I _know _exactly who you are and beyond that I know exactly _what _you are. You're a killer, Mister Lincoln. The same as me. The only difference between us is the government doesn't condone the work _I _do." _

_Drake's heart kicked into overdrive though his blood had run cold. The noise in his skull had changed from a frantically clanging bell to a trilling scream. _

How does he know that? He _can't _know that! _Drake didn't realize he'd clenched his hands into fists until he noticed they were trembling. _They told me my file was blacked out and sealed. There's no way this two-bit scumbag could get access to my records! _No way. _

"_Now, the way I see it, Mister Lincoln," McShay continued, apparently oblivious to the scowling, shaking man in front of him, "if you're one of my competitors then you're one of my problems. I assure you, Mister Lincoln, that - like my competition - I'm renowned for eliminating my problems." _

"_I haven't done anything to be a problem for you," Drake said, his voice a low, dark growl. _

"_Not yet, no," McShay agreed. "It's only a matter of time though before Capelli learns about you and your rather unique...skill set. Once that happens then he'll be standing where I am now about to make you the same offer I'm going to. When he does then you _will _be my problem, Mister Lincoln. Make no mistake about that." _

_Something he said made Drake cock an eyebrow. "Offer?"_

"_Yes. You see, in the business I deal in there are only two types of people really - the ones that are problems and the ones that are assets. For you to stop being a problem for me, I'll need to turn you into an asset." McShay grinned as Cue Ball and Charms watched impassively. "Or a corpse." _

You might find that's easier said than done, Freddy.

"_So what are you offering me, McShay? A job?"_

"_That's exactly what I'm offering you." _

"_Doing what?"_

"_Cleaning." McShay's grin never touched his eyes. "The kind of work you're used to doing." _

Cleaning. _Drake had quickly shifted from fear to fury. Hissing with rage, he lurched forward and grabbed two fistfuls of McShay's finely tailored lapels. _You mean killing, you son of a bitch!

"_Who the fuck do you think you are?" Drake snarled. "The only guy in New York with a guy and a badass attitude? If you know who I am then you know the things I've done and _who _I've done them to. You think you're anything to me? You're small time, a street punk compared to the people I've gone after." _

_Cue Ball and Charms had seen enough. The two bruisers moved in and grabbed Drake by the shoulders. He could feel the crushing strength in their ham-fists as they shoved him back a couple paces. McShay appeared unperturbed, taking only a moment to smooth his hair and pull his tie back into place. _

"_Think carefully, Mister Lincoln." McShay looked Drake in the eye and now he recognized that rough, icy face from the television. "You're about to make an incredibly dangerous mistake. If you don't accept my offer you should know that I'm not prepared to leave you for Romeo Capelli to collect." _

_Now it was Drake's turn to grin. He stepped forward but the two goons closed ranks. Drake wasn't deterred. He leered between their shoulders, still smiling but there were daggers in his eyes as he fixed in on McShay. _

"_Try it," he said. "Try and come after me. You think you're the first person on this earth who thought he had the balls to put me in the ground? Come after me and I'll bury you." _

_Drake pushed between Thug One and Thug Two. Thug One - otherwise known as Cue Ball - made a grab for his left arm but Drake spun to one side, caught the man's arm and wrenched it hard behind his back. Cue Ball let loose a strangled roar of pain that was quickly cut short when Drake slammed the heel of his hand into the side of the man's tree trunk neck. All the fight went out of Cue Ball then as he fell gasping, coughing and clutching at his neck. Charms thought about moving in to take up his friend's cause but backed off when Drake cast a withering glance in his direction. _

_McShay looked down at Cue Ball as he struggled to find his breath again. Drake took his raised eyebrows for a sign that he was impressed. As he walked past the Irishman, Drake paused to whisper in his ear. _

"_I don't do that anymore," he spat. "Not for the government and sure as _hell _not for the likes of _you. _If you know what's best for you, Mister McShay, you'll leave me alone. Find someone else to...clean up your problems." _

"_If you know what's best for _you_, Mister Lincoln, you won't walk away without taking me up on my offer." _

_Drake snorted and did just that. He didn't bother looking back when McShay called over his shoulder, "You're making a mistake."_

_Drake made the rest of the march home in silence, his good mood ruined. The peace of his day torn to shreds by some red-headed prick who thought he was the second coming of Don Corleone. _

_Drake plodded along through the early morning streets, finding his way more by rote than purpose. His mind was elsewhere, occupied with other matters. _

_He had never tried to run from his old life. He was what he was - had been, anyway. There was no sense in denying that, in trying to hide it - but there was no sense in advertising it either. Drake had done his best to leave the ghosts buried with the bodies; to make a change. A _real _change. _

Just goes to show, _Drake fumed silently, squeezing the strap on his backpack so tightly he might well have been trying to strangle it, _you can try and shut the door on the past all you like but in the end it'll just kick the fucker in on you.

_He didn't come back to himself until he found he was standing in front of his apartment door. Drake blinked, his anger evaporating as quickly as it had surfaced. He looked at the numbers on that door, at its battered wooden frame. To him, it felt like waking up only to step into another dream. _

_Drake reached for the doorknob and, as he so often did, wondered if this could all be real. He knew that on the other side of that old, worn door there would be a woman waiting for him. The best, most beautiful woman he'd ever known - and one who knew _him _only as Drake Lincoln, Dockhand and Boyfriend In Training. For that, he couldn't have been more grateful. _

What if I don't know that though? What if I don't know any of those things? What if I just...made them all up? _Drake had never been a big believer in post-traumatic stress disorder or any of that psychological jazz but, Lord knew, he had seen - and done - enough things in his former life to certainly have justified an extended vacation from reality. _What if...what if _she's _not real?

_The thought terrified Drake worse than Fatal Freddy or his vague threats could ever hope to. His pulse thundering, Drake turned the knob and exploded into the apartment. His heart skipped a beat when he saw that Jessica wasn't at her usual place at the kitchen table, pouring over the morning paper with a cup of coffee in her hand. Then he remembered the hour, hurried into the bedroom - and there she was. _

_Drake had never been one much for romance. Feelings - strong feelings - invariably left him feeling all jumbled up inside, like a jigsaw puzzle someone had kicked across the floor, its shape shattered and out of place. So he would always scoff or roll his eyes or outright laugh when he heard some of the other guys in his unit running their mouthes about their wives or girlfriends. About how beautiful they were. About how it hurt their hearts to look at them sometimes._

Sorry, sentimental fools...and now I'm one of them.

_Drake had never understood before but now looking at Jessica - all raven-hair and willowy limbs - he knew what those sorry saps had meant. It still gave him that jigsaw-feeling deep in his gut but it didn't make him uncomfortable anymore. Instead, it made him smile. _

_At first, Drake thought he had made his entry stealthily and gone undetected but then he saw the smirk tugging at the corners of Jessica's lips and knew better. _

"_Quit playing possum, girl," he grinned, nudging the foot of the bed with his boot. "I know you're awake." _

"_Of course I am," Jessica said, eyes still clamped shut. "You make more noise coming through the front door than Germany did invading Poland." _

"_Well, excuse me," Drake teased moving over and snapping up the blinds. Sunlight flooded the small room, making Jessica flinch and groan. "I figured a vampire like yourself would be a deeper sleeper." _

"_A vampire?" Jessica ceased her dramatic thrashing and writhing long enough to crack open one eye. "Is that supposed to be an attempt at wit?"_

"_Wit?" Drake chuckled, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. "From me? Nah, not my style. I'm just saying anyone who sleeps through the daylight hours as much as you do must either be a vampire - or just colossally lazy." _

"Lazy?" _Drake ducked the incoming pillow. "Hey, just because everyone doesn't wake up at at the crack of dawn like _you _doesn't make us lazy. Besides, you'd appreciate sleeping in too if you had to work a nine hour graveyard shift. You ever try and stitch up a gunshot wound at three in the morning?"_

No, _Drake's smile faded, _but I've handed out more than a few in my day.

"_Uh oh."_

"_Uh oh?" Drake arced an eyebrow. _

"_You're frowning. I think I might have hurt your feelings, actually. You're making the Drake's-upset-face. It looks like this." Jessica scrunched up her forehead, narrowed her eyes and pushed out her lower lip until she resembled something that was a cross between a caveman and a sad puppy. _

"_That's...that's just repulsive." _

"_I know," Jessica's sighed. "Think about how _I _feel. I have to look at you every. Single. Day." _

"_Ha. Ha." Drake chortled dryly, playfully pinching the back of Jess' neck until she squealed and swatted at his hand. "Real funny. You better start being nicer to me or you're not going to get your present."_

"_Ooh a present? Gimme gimme." _

"_Gimme gimme never gets," Drake taunted. "Now, close your eyes and _maybe _I can be persuaded to give you a little something." _

_Laughing, Jessica sat up straighter and obediently closed her pale blue eyes. Her soft lips curled in an anticipatory smile. Drake slid a hand behind her neck, entwining his fingers in her smooth black hair. He pulled her face in close and kissed those lips, feeling the warmth, tasting the sweetness of her breath. _

_In that moment, in the space of that kiss, Drake forgot about everything else. He forgot about the offer of Fredrick McShay and the threats of Fatal Freddy. He forgot about the mud, sand, swamps and blood. He forgot about what he had been and focused on who he was now. _

I'm hers. That's what I am - who I am. I'm hers.

"_Okay," Drake murmured, breaking the kiss. "You can open your eyes now." _

_When she did, it seemed to Drake they were alight, glowing. He thought the same could be said for the sarcastic smile creasing her face as well. _

"_Well?" She asked with a stern glance. "Where's my present, huh?"_

_Drake just looked at her then found himself matching her smile with one of his own. He lunged at her, digging his fingertips into her sides and tickling her with an almost animalistic ferocity. Jessica fell back on the bed, laughing until she was gasping for breath, kicking her legs free of the comforter as she tried to scramble away from his dancing fingers. _

"_So?" Drake asked conversationally, as she giggled and flopped beneath him. "Do you like your present? I'm not sure I can return it if you don't." _

_Jessica just laughed. Drake felt her reach up, grabbing two fistfuls of his shaggy hair. She pulled him down on top of her, touching his forehead to her own, pressing her lips to his. _

_Drake felt the warmth of the sunlight on his back, the heat of Jessica's body beneath him. He reveled in the softness of her skin as her hands trailed down his face. He grinned against her lips as she grasped hold of the quilt and pulled it up over both of their heads. _

_It was a perfect day..._

_..._until he opened his eyes.

For one terrifyingly long heartbeat he lost all sense of himself. He had no idea of where he was or how he had gotten there. He couldn't recall the names of the broken, bloodied people scrambling through the ruins around him. He couldn't recall his _own _name.

Everything came back in a sudden, blurring rush that left him feeling dizzy. His name. The bus. Reggie. The crows. The crash. A fleeting second of dark terror and dull pain then...blackness. Blackness and the dreams that dwelt within it.

_Those weren't dreams, _Drake realized, shaking loose the cobwebs that had invaded his brain while he slept. _I was back facing Freddy. I was back with Jess. Those weren't dreams - they were memories. I was lost somewhere in the space between._

A heavy weight settled across Drake's chest, driving the breath from his lungs in a single, strangled grunt. Drake found himself staring up into the sweaty, blood-spattered face of a man who's name he couldn't remember. He knew that had less to do with a blow to the head than it did with simple acquaintanceship.

Drake had been too busy trying to get the bus up and running to pay any attention to Danny's litter of strays when they came in to make their introductions. The names of the two CDC researchers had stuck in his mind easily enough, probably given all their press but Drake had codenamed the pair they were with as Beard-o and Photographer. Drake saw the camera was still swinging from around Photographer's neck. He saw the panic clawing at the inside of the other man's eyes too, before he scuttled past and crawled through what was left of the front windshield.

With Photographer no longer kneeling on his chest, Drake gulped down mouthfuls of oxygen. Each breath did a little more to alleviate the ache in his lungs...and make him more aware of the acute throbbing in the side of his head. Drake tried to touch a hand to the side of his head but felt it catch before he got it even half way. Twisting his head to the side, Drake noticed that his wrist was still firmly shackled to the steering wheel.

_That's lucky. _

Using his free hand to probe the side of his head, Drake winced as a sharp sting raced along his scalp. He felt wetness beneath his fingers, his hand coming away sticky with blood. Grunting sourly, Drake gingerly traced the outline of his wound. The laceration was long but not deep. The blood on his fingertips was dark and thick, meaning the cut was already starting to clot.

_That's lucky too. _

The harsh, rattling scream of automatic gunfire a second later had Drake questioning his luck. Groaning, he shrugged off a fresh wave of pain that made his head swim and fought his way up into a sitting position. At the tail end of the bus - which, Drake noticed, now lay on its side - Briggs and Scaggs crouched, firing through the rear windshield. The soldiers hollered at each other between bursts and while Drake couldn't hear what was being said, nothing about their current situation led him to believe it was anything good.

He looked up and watched as Gilson passed a hand down through a broken window to Tucker. Drake looked on as the bulky deputy struggled through the narrow opening. When the two were out of sight, the shriek of automatic weapons sounded from above as well as below. Smoking shell casings rained down into the bent, battered wreckage of the bus.

Movement drew Drake's eye and he twisted his head in the other direction to see Doctor Shields and Beard-o dragging a groggy, disoriented looking Doctor Waxer toward the left-hand side - formerly the bus' roof. Beard-o yanked on the red lever of the emergency hatch then kicked the trapdoor open with such gusto he knocked it clean off its hinges. The two men pulled Sarah out into the daylight followed closely by Sheesh who pulled Michelle along by one arm. The redhead grimaced and cried out any time she tried to put weight on her right leg.

Beneath the torrent of gunfire, the rumble of raised voices and the sharp growls of pain there was another noise. A chorus of dark, wet groans. The singing of the infected. The black voice of the dead horde.

_There must be hundreds of them judging by that noise, _Drake realized with the calm probably born of a concussion. _Sounds like they've got us surrounded too. _In his fuzzy, fuddled mind another thought occurred to him just then. _Well, at least the crows are gone. _

Drake shook that thought away instantly and mentally flogged himself for the note of dark humor it had carried with it. Yes, the crows were gone but so was Reggie. They had seen to that before taking flight.

Drake remembered the shock, sitting inside the bus, watching the window break into a thousand pieces as a column of winged darkness tore into the garage. He remembered how he felt, numb, sick and horrified, as that column swallowed Reggie whole. He remembered the pain as his stomach twisted into a pretzel as he watched the contract flail and scream as the mutant birds shredded his skin like rice paper. He remembered, as clearly as if it were happening before him right now, watching as Danny leveled his M4, trying to draw a bead on the contractor through that swirling storm of dark feathers, aiming to put Reggie down the way you would an ailing dog.

_Danny. Where is he?_

Drake didn't have to search far or long. The marshall commander was slumped at his feet. Danny lay curled up on his side, face shut, and if it hadn't been for the hockey puck-sized welt on his forehead, Drake would have sworn the marshall had just laid down for a nap. He could see Danny's chest still rose and fell. He was breathing but Drake was no longer sure that was such a lucky thing.

He looked around again and noticed for the first time that there was no sign of the two gumshoes. Drake figured they must have been the first ones to come to after the crash and hightailed it once they realized company was coming over for dinner. _Bastards_. Drake grunted, pulling on the handcuff but finding that the chain was still solid and holding tight. Apparently the only thing in the bus to emerge unscathed. _Smart bastards. _

Slamming a fresh clip into his weapon, Scaggs glanced back over his shoulder as Sheesh and Michelle hobbled through the emergency exit. He slapped Briggs, who was still firing through the rear window, on the back and gestured frantically towards the opening. Briggs loosed another burst, glanced back and nodded. His sergeant climbed back towards the hatch with Briggs covering their flank, shooting at targets Drake couldn't see as he withdrew.

_They're leaving. _All vestiges of the strange calm that had settled over his mind fled as quickly as the two Rangers were attempting to. _They're leaving us. _

Drake yanked and pulled on the handcuffs, knowing his every panicked breath brought the mob of creatures outside a step closer. A cold sweat broke out across his forehead as he grunted and groaned, trying to snap the length of chain that bound his wrist to the cuff secured around the steering wheel. Drake wasn't sure if he was perspiring because of exertion or sheer terror and, truth be told, he didn't much care either. All he wanted was _out. _

He pulled and pulled, shaking the set of shackles, trying to break the link with nothing more than an impressive showing of upper body strength. Even his output of brute strength proved too meagre to so much as warp the steel. The cuffs held on like a man dangling from a cliff, clinging stubbornly to a thin outcropping. Howling - with fury or panic, Drake didn't know - he hauled on the cuffs with both hands, pulling until he was red-faced and gasping, his arm raw and bloody from where the metal had bit into his flesh.

"Fuck!" Drake huffed and puffed, relaxing his grip as he fought to regain his breath for his next assault.

Wet gurgles and dark, throaty moans drew his attention to the back of the bus. Corpses littered the ground outside, leaving the asphalt slick with congealed blood and bits of brain matter. _Briggs and Scaggs' handiwork. Too bad they didn't feel like putting in a little overtime. _Behind the line of fallen dead came a wall of walking dead. They were five feet away, shambling and stumbling ever closer.

Drake felt his gorge rise in his throat as the putrid scent of decaying flesh filled his nostrils. _Christ, they're close enough to smell. _He spun around and started to kick at the chain binding him to the steering wheel, hoping he had enough leverage to snap the links. He didn't.

"Shit." His foot lashed out, striking the chain again. Again it held giving off a soft metallic _tink _noise. The sound infuriated Drake. It seemed to much like a taunting giggle to his ears. "Shit! Shit! _Shit!" _He punctuated each obscenity by slamming his shoe against the cuffs. Kick. Kick. Kick. _Tink. Tink. Tink. _

He shot a feverish glance towards the back of the bus, saw that the creatures were within a foot of the wreckage now - if that far. Their groans were louder, deeper, more insistent now. _They can smell food. They can smell _me.

Drake looked around at the mangled interior of the bus and thought he now understood how a piece of canned meat felt. That understanding flooded every fibre in his body with the purest, most undiluted kind of fear he had ever experienced in his life. His blood ran cold but he was sweating worse than if it was a sauna he'd been shackled inside. Perspiration washed blood from his weeping cut into his eyes and Drake blinked it away. He took to kicking at the handcuffs in a frenzy now.

"Not me! Not today!" He grunted the words again and again, making them into a mantra as he focused all his will on snapping a six-inch piece of steel. "Not me! Not today! I'm not _fucking _dying like _this!" _

Neither the power of his mantra, nor that of his foot, was enough to gain his freedom though. Letting loose an explosive breath, Drake sagged onto his back. He was too terrified to be exhausted, too exhausted to be terrified, and yet somehow Drake felt plenty of both.

_This isn't going to work. I need the key. I need the goddamn key!_

Drake looked down at Danny's prone body and realized he had about as much chance of finding the goddamn key as he did of finding a snowball in Hell. It could have been hiding in any one of the multitude of pockets and pouches on the marshal's tactical vest or cargo pants. Drake bit his tongue to stifle an outraged scream.

_Goddamn it, Danny! You should have just shot me in that fucking interrogation room. Would have saved us both all this time and energy - wait. Wait a second. _

Drake looked back at the unconscious marshal...and there it was. The object of his desire, nestled snuggly in Danny's hip holster. The marshall had even had the good fortune to fall at such an angle that left his legs angled towards Drake, putting the Sig Sauer just within reach. With a surge of hope sending a giddy thrill running up his spine, Drake reached for the pistol.

His fingers touched the butt of the handgun when Danny's meaty paw closed around his free hand as tightly as the handcuff was cinched around the other. He locked gazes with the marshal, could almost feel the heat coming from Danny's dark, furious eyes. He grunted with disgust and thrust Drake's hand away as he struggled to a sitting position.

"Do that again," Danny said groggily, "and I'll give you my gun - one bullet at a time."

"Hilarious. Now get me the hell out of here, Danny!"

"What happened?" Danny shook his head, climbing to his knees.

"I took a corner too fast, flipped the bus. My bad. I guess I had one too many at the Christmas party. Now, get me _the fuck out of here!" _He rattled the cuffs like a ghost shaking its chains. As Danny regained his feet, Drake could see two of the infected crawling through the rear windshield - a man with a face as grey as his thin hair and a woman who would have appeared human if not for the ring of dark blood around her lips. "Sometime soon would be best!"

Danny looked back at the creatures worming their way inside and only then did he seem to realize where he was. He surveyed the empty bus and Drake saw him mouth the word "_Shit" _before he turned back stomping towards his prisoner. He grabbed Drake's wrist then gave one final look to where the two infected were finding their feet. When he turned back Drake could see the anger wrinkling his features.

"Goddamnit," Danny grunted. "You try anything Drake and I _will _shoot you. That's a promise."

"I'll be good," Drake said his eyes on the undead couple as they staggered closer. "Scouts honor."

Danny reached into his pant pocket and pulled the tiny handcuff key. _Figures, _Drake thought dryly as he heard the soft _click _and suddenly he had the use of both hands again. Danny had unlocked the cuff from around the steering wheel and the shackles jangled as Drake shook the feeling back into his numb arm.

Pocketing the key, Danny turned smoothly and drew his Sig Sauer in one fluid motion. The crash hadn't effected the marshal's aim as it took him only a second to aim and pull the trigger twice, one-handed. The two creatures slumped against each other as they fell, smoking holes decorating their foreheads.

There were two more behind them though and two more behind those ones. All with pale reaching hands and dead white eyes. All with blood or worse lining their lips or dripping from their nails.

"Time to go," Danny said, grabbing Drake's jumpsuit by the collar and pushing him out through the opening where the windshield used to be.

Shards of glass crunched under their feet like ice crystals as Drake and Danny made their way out into the daylight. The others hadn't run off but Drake thought they had stayed more out of necessity than heroism. There was, simply, nowhere to go.

They had crashed in the intersection of a residential and shopping areas. The creatures choked the road ahead and behind. They came pouring out of alleyways and down side-streets like a flood of rotting skin. Their moans polluted the air like the voice of the grave, pierced now and again by the clatter of gunshots.

The sounds of gunplay were loudest at the rear and Drake turned to see Gilson and Tucker had taken up positions on top of the bus' hull. There was a pile of bodies five carcasses deep at back end of the bus but that didn't deter the creatures from clambering up the sides. The two deputies popped heads as they reared up over the edge but the zombies were making ground all the same, forcing Gilson and Tucker to retreat. For every infected that went down - and stayed down - three more arrived to fill the gap, swarming the bus like flies on a corpse.

Briggs and Scaggs had taken a knee on either side of the bus, loosing volleys at the horde closing in behind them. It turned out Mick and Clarke hadn't booked it for greener pastures either. Drake saw the two were watching up the street, guns held at the ready but fingers off the triggers. The mob of infected there was closing steadily, blocking off any path of escape but still out of range. Beard-o and the two doctors stood close by. Beard-o's sweaty fingers twitching around the grip of his pistol as Sarah and Homer looked around, their heads on swivels, reminding Drake of a couple of frightened rabbits, frantically searching for somewhere - _anywhere_ - to run to.

It was Sheesh and Michelle that drew Danny's attention though, Drake saw. The marshal hurried over to where his two deputies sat just outside the bus front end, Michelle's back resting against the dented metal frame, her face a tense, rigid mask of pain. Sheesh crouched beside her, shoving away Photographer when he came in and tried to snap a picture of the wincing woman.

Danny pushed his way in, giving Photographer a shove of his own that nearly put the smaller man on his back. "What happened?" Danny had to shout to be heard above the din of gunfire and deafening wave of warbling groans.

"It's my ankle," Michelle hissed through gritted teeth. Her face was streaked with sweat and nearly as pale as one of the dead. "I think I broke it in the crash, Boss."

Danny looked around and Drake could only guess at what thoughts must have been running through his mind. _Surrounded by the undead with no way out and now this. He must be wondering who he pissed off in a past life. Lord, knows I am. _

"Can you stand on it?" Danny asked.

"Yeah," Michelle nodded tersely. "I think so. Hurts like a bitch though so don't expect me to run any marathons."

"Sheesh, help her walk. I'm going to find us a way out of here."

"With pleasure, Boss," Sheesh grinned nervously at Michelle as he slung her arm across his shoulders. "If you need me to carry you just let me know, Mitch. My broad manly shoulders and back can take it, don't you worry. I'll have to carry you piggyback style though, that way I can get the best grip."

"Yeah right. You better enjoy this, Sheesh. This is as close to my ass as you'll ever get."

"Never say never, my love."

"Whatever we're going to do we better do it now!" Mick bellowed, his shotgun spitting smoke and buckshot as the crowd of infected closed more distance. "We're running out of room fast!"

_Christ. _Drake looked left and right, in front and behind. When he had been trapped in the bus with nothing to go on but the sounds of the infected he had guessed there had been hundreds of them. He hadn't expected to be correct. _Looks like the whole city turned out for this. _

"Danny!" He shouted, looking to where the marshal commander was unslinging his M4. "Give me a gun!"

Danny's head snapped up and he fixed the other man with an expression that implied Drake might have asked him to eat his own head. "Not on your life!"

He balled his fists up in exasperation. _It'll be both our lives if you don't. _

"Follow me," Danny shouted. "We're moving!"

Firing his M4, Danny took off running - straight towards the throng of undead marching their way. At first, Drake thought the crash must have knocked the sense clear out of Danny's skull but then the marshal veered off to the left, darting into an alley Drake hadn't even noticed - testament to how bad a knock on the head _he'd _taken.

He took off in pursuit of Danny, the other survivors hot on his heels. Those with weapons used them, doing what little they could to keep the approaching horde at bay. Those without used their legs, doing everything they could to catch up with Danny and get off the street.

Drake reached the lip of the alleyway first - and promptly applied the brakes as Danny came roaring back around the corner, his face red and arms pumping like he meant to take flight. Behind him came a dozen of the infected, pushing and shoving in the narrow alley as they jockeyed to get a hold of their breakfast before it could escape.

"Holy shit," Drake breathed.

"Go back!" Danny roared, waving with the hand that wasn't gripping his M4. "Everyone get back!"

Together they stumbled back onto the sidewalk. Danny whirled and pressed the stock of his carbine to his shoulder, grinding down the creatures in the alley with a withering fire. Another dozen pale and bloody faces came around the corner to replace the ones Danny had downed but then Tucker was at his side, spraying the corridor with lead, splashing the brick walls with blood.

"Scaggs!" Briggs shouted, loosing rounds at the crowd approaching from up the street. "Hold the rear!"

"On it!" The sergeant broke from their line, unclipped a grenade from his vest, pulled the pin and hurled the explosive into the skeleton of the bus that the creatures continued to worm through like maggots in a giant metal corpse.

"Everybody down!" Drake shouted, grabbing hold of Sarah's shoulders, pulling her to the ground as the others ducked reflexively.

No sooner had they hit the ground than the grenade went off. When it blew, it lit the fuel left in the gas tank, turning the bus into a massive fireball. The walking dead were either incinerated in the inferno, cut down by flying shrapnel or launched off their feet by the force of the blast.

Drake could feel the heat of the flames. The stink of burning, pestilent flesh overwhelmed his senses. The creatures that were still standing moaned to voice their displeasure and shied away from the fire. Drake doubted the bus would burn hot enough long enough though.

_Bought ourselves a little time at least. _

"Thanks," Sarah said beneath him, brushing her sweat-dampened hair back behind her ear.

"Don't thank me yet," Drake grunted looking up to where Danny was reloading as Tucker covered the alley. "_Danny! _Give me a fucking gun! Do you really think I would turn on you _now? _Let me help, goddamn it!"

Danny slapped a fresh clip into his M4 and glanced back over his shoulder at Drake. He studied him for a moment that felt more like an hour, his face a solid wall of granite. Drake thought he was going to tell him where he should stick his head but then, finally, the marshal's face softened and he nodded.

"Michelle, give the son of a bitch your sidearm." Danny turned back to the alley, opening fire as Tucker pulled another magazine from his vest.

Drake caught the pistol she threw him, wracked the slide and thumbed the safety off. Holding the pistol in both hands, he raced up to support Sheesh who was forced to one-arm his M4, using his other arm to keep Michelle on her feet. Beard-o fell into step beside him a second later and only then did Drake notice the name stitched across the front of his vest read _**Hargreaves.**_

Leaving the others to watch their backs Drake brought the pistol up, exhaled slowly, and started picking targets. He was no stranger to guns but when it came to pistols Drake was more accustomed to the feel of smaller weapons - .22s or "pea shooters" as one guy in his unit had called them. The Sig's solid weight made the handgun feel almost clumsy in his grip so Drake supported his gun-hand at the wrist to compensate.

Drake took a second deep breath and exhaled each time he squeezed the trigger. He fired twice each time - just like he'd been trained to do - switching to the next target as soon as the one before it went down. He shot tight groups - just like he'd been trained to do - his first round drilling through the center of each creature's forehead, the second finding a home less than inch to the right of the first.

_Just like riding a bike. _

Proud as he was that his abilities as a deadeye weren't showing any signs of rust, Drake resisted the masturbatory urge to congratulate himself just yet. For every creature he permanently put on the ground there were four or five more only too happy to trample over its carcass to get at him. Risking a glance back, Drake saw the others were dealing with similar problems. All the damage they were doing amounted to chipping a scale off the dragon's back.

_Basically, _Drake popped off two more rounds, sending a man in a tattered t-shirt to the dirt, _we're fucked. _

"Running low!" Mick shouted from his position in the rearguard, the deep thunder of his shotgun almost drowning out his words. He reached into his jacket pocket, came out with a handful of shells.

"Last mag!" Clarke called a second later, jamming a clip into his Glock.

"Grenade out!" Briggs roared, hurling another of the explosives into the herd of infected approaching from up the street. Drake threw himself down again but without a fuel source the blast was much less impressive this time. A pocket of the zombies were reduced to red mist or ground into bloody chuck but that didn't stop the rest of them from coming forward.

"How many more of those do you got?" Danny asked, firing his M4 until it clicked dry then switching to his sidearm.

"Not enough!" Briggs answered, swapping magazines.

"Last mag!" Hargreaves yelled, unloading the last of his ammunition into a wall of peeling flesh and cracked teeth.

"We gotta get out of here," Photographer mumbled where he stood trembling in the center of their loose circle. His wide eyes and dreamy tone left Drake wondering if the man was aware he was talking at all. "We gotta get out of here. We gotta get out of here. We gotta get _out of here._"

"Danny, get us off this _fucking street!_" Gilson screamed, spraying the line of walking corpses on full auto. They came on, seemingly oblivious of the bullets ripping through their flesh, shattering their bones.

Drake looked back to see Danny searching around, his eyes full of that frightened rabbit look. Sweat ran in rivulets down his face, dripping from his jaw. Drake watched as Danny's mouth moved silently, struggling to voice a plan his brain hadn't come up with yet.

_There's no way out of here. _Drake put the last two rounds in the Sig's clip through the face of a man in an EMS uniform and yelled at Michelle for another clip. _He can see it plain as me. We're boxed in. Trapped like fucking rats. _

"Boss, right here!" Tucker yelled, lowering his M4 as he ran up to a small shop on the right, one of the buildings that doubled as a wall for the alleyway. There was a board nailed across the front door but Tucker tore it down without seeming to even flex his bowling ball biceps.

Drake studied the small store as he loaded the magazine Michelle handed him. It took him only a single glance to realize there was something...off about it...something wrong. Drake supposed the same could be said for just about everyone and everything in Raccoon City but there was something about that tiny shop that set his internal alarms to singing worse than Fatal Freddy ever had.

_Blood spattered across the sidewalk out front...Board across the door and more boards across the windows...but they're all across the _outside_. _Drake narrowed his gaze as Tucker tried the door and found it locked. _You don't board up the outside of a building to keep something out. _

"You board it up to keep something in," Drake mumbled, running towards the store. Tucker leaned back, ready to throw his bulk through the door. "_Tucker, no!" _

Too late. Tucker's shoulder hit the door with the force of a freight train, sending it swinging in wide with a dry _crunch_. The huge deputy's momentum carried him forward, through the entrance - and straight into a forest of grey, grasping hands. There wasn't even time for Tucker to scream as those hands hauled him down and broken brown teeth sank into his neck, arms, legs and face. A half dozen of the creatures piled onto the big man, drowning him beneath an avalanche of hungry cadavers.

"_Tuck!"_ Danny's voice was strained and cracked.

"_YOU FUCKERS!" _Gilson's shout was a lion's roar but Drake could see the tears in his eyes as the deputy shoulder his M4 and held down the trigger. Drake winced as Gilson fired the carbine right next to his ear, sending a torrent of rounds ripping through the doorway, shredding the infected as they tore and bit at his friend. A hollow screech rent the air but Drake wasn't sure if it belonged to Mike Gilson or the weapon in his hands.

Finally the screaming of both man and machine died away. All the creatures in the shop's doorway were down, oozing their syrupy blood out over the sidewalk. Mercifully, whatever remained of Tucker lay hidden, buried beneath a mound of inhuman wreckage.

_Click. Click. Click. _Drake looked over to see Gilson still pulling on the trigger, seemingly deaf to the empty _clicks _it gave off. His eyes were wide but dripping tears that ran down through the film of sweat and crime covering his face. Gilson's mouth was open but all that was coming out was a thin, whispering breath. Drake realized the man had screamed himself hoarse.

"Somebody do _something!" _Photographer demanded as they were backed into a tighter and tighter circle. One hand clutched the camera around his neck, the other had a death grip on Homer's arm.

_Do something. _Drake looked around, squeezing the pistol's grip between his hands. _Now there's a novel idea. _

Drake did a three-sixty looking for anything from a mouse-hole to a giant flashing **EMERGENCY EXIT THIS WAY **sign - anything that would get them out of the middle of the street. He didn't see anything of the sort.

There were plenty of alleys but all were filled with the walking dead. There were plenty of fences but all of them were either too tall to climb or topped with razor wire. There were plenty of doors but all were either boarded shut or made of metal so solid-looking it probably would have cost even Gilson a leg to break it down.

"Last mag!" Sheesh yelled a moment before Scaggs shouted, "I'm out," and switched to the pistol holstered in his vest.

_Shit. Shit. Shit! _Drake squeezed the Sig tighter, checking each direction twice. _It can't end like this. Not after everything I did, not after I came this far. It can't end like this! I. Won't. Let it! _

Drake scanned the fences, doorways and alleys again - and saw something that sent his heart leaping into his throat. _There. _He spotted it in an alleyway just across the street but with the dead closing in on both sides it might have been a world away. _It's a slim chance but it's better than no chance. _

"This way!" He shouted. "C'mon!"

He raced across the street, dashing down the narrow space between the two waves of encroaching infected. As he ran, Drake couldn't escape the sensation that he had been dropped smack dab in the middle of some twisted version of the _Ten Commandments _and here he was, playing Moses as he parted the Sea of Red Mouths.

Drake raised his pistol when he reached the other side. There were only three creatures in the alley, reaching for him with dirty fingertips, but three quick pulls of the trigger sent them slumping to the concrete. Drake leapt over the prone bodies and skidded to a halt in front of a heavy green industrial dumpster.

Positioned just above it was an air conditioning unit affixed to the wall of one building with strips of duct tape. It was an external unit which meant it would feed into a ventilation shaft. Judging by the size of the air conditioner and the size of the building, that vent might be just big enough for all of them to shimmy through.

_Provided we can knock that sucker loose. _Now that he was close-up, Drake could see that only half of the unit had been tacked on with duct tape. The other half was still held in place by four thick bolts. _Those bolts look nice and rusty though. We'll pull this thing down or die trying. Funny, that used to only be a saying. _

There were no pockets on his department of corrections jumpsuit so Drake unzipped the front and stuffed the Sig into the waistband of his boxer shorts. Grunting he pulled himself up onto the top of the dumpster and started ripping strips of tape off the unit. When he had torn all of the tape down, Drake dug his fingers in behind the air conditioner and growled as he yanked it free of the wall. There was the grinding of metal as Drake pulled the unit out just enough to reveal there was, in fact, a vent shaft concealed behind it but the bolts - rusty or not - held firm.

"Hey! Give me a hand up here!"

Mick hopped onto the dumpster, hammering the stock of his twelve-gauge against the other side of the air conditioner, trying to punch the stubborn bolts loose. Drake closed his eyes, grit his teeth and pried until his fingers were aching. It might have been the caveman's approach but Mick's relentless hammering was having an affect. Drake could feel the air conditioner slipping free inch by inch.

"Come on, you bitch!" Mick roared, bringing the stock of his weapon down again and again as gunshots burst and hollow moans echoed in the tight space.

"Briggs, Scaggs! Push them back!" Drake heard Danny yell and then two deep concussions had the ground trembling and his teeth rattling inside his skull. He felt a curtain of intense heat wash over him. It abated a second later...and the air conditioner fell free with a sharp, metallic squeal.

"Go! Go!" Drake waved Mick through first then turned back and offered a hand down to Sarah. "Come on, you next!"

He helped her up and through followed by Photographer - who all but tossed him out of the way before diving into the vent - and Homer. With Sheesh's assistance he took Michelle next, gingerly pulling her up and guiding her into the shaft before the skinny deputy piled in after her. Clarke was next. Hargreaves came after the detective followed by a hesitant looking Gilson. Drake practically had to shove him into the shaft himself.

_Jesus. He looks like he'd rather stay here and duke it out with each one of these freaks like it's a street fight or something._

Scaggs and Briggs helped Danny hold the line, firing until they were empty before finally falling back. The two Rangers disappeared into the vent in order of rank - the lieutenant preceding his sergeant. Drake fired down into the crowd as Danny clicked dry.

"Come on, Danny, we gotta go!"

The marshal slung his M4 across his neck and pulled himself up onto the dumpster. The creatures circled them, reaching and clawing at their angles. Gnashing at the air.

"You first!" Danny said, drawing his pistol, double-tapping one of the infected as it tried to mount the bin. "Go!"

For once, Drake didn't bother arguing. Getting Danny to authorize him to carry a weapon was probably about as far as the marshal was willing to capitulate even despite the current circumstances.

_Probably still thinks I'll take off the second his eyes aren't glued to me. _Drake dove into the vent, pulling himself through the shadowy tunnel on his elbows and knees. Behind him he heard Danny let loose another handful of rounds before he clambered into the shaft as well. _I guess he's afraid I'll persuade the nice folks outside to hide me while I'm on the lamb. Then he'd have to charge a city full of zombies with aiding and abetting a wanted fugitive. Wouldn't that just be a paperwork nightmare?_

Drake crawled through the dimly lit tunnel and emerged into a dimly lit room. There was just enough sunlight streaming in through the shaft for him to make out that it was some type of storage area. Tall shelves were stacked with rolls of paper towels, boxes of toilet paper and jugs of detergent and other cleansers. Brooms, mops and large yellow cleaning bins lined the wall.

It was about a ten foot drop from the vent to the floor but Scaggs and Clarke appeared beneath the opening to help Drake and Danny down. As soon as their feet touched the floor the four men grabbed a pair of the heavy steel shelves and shoved them in front of the opening, plunging the room into almost complete darkness.

Drake collapsed onto his back in the middle of the floor and shut his eyes. After the harsh daylight and the monsters it had revealed Drake found the blackness rather soothing. He lay with his hands across his chest, gasping for breath, his arms and legs trembling as he came down from an adrenaline-induced high. Drake was sweating so profusely he thought he might die of dehydration before anything else in Raccoon City got the chance to kill him.

The room stank of unwashed bodies and there was a cacophony of laboured breathing and pained groans but all Drake could think about was how easy it would be to lay in that spot forever. He could just stay right where he was, wrapped in the safety of his black cocoon, lulled to sleep by the noises around him.

_I'll drift right to sleep and when I wake up I'll find that I'm still in my cozy holding cell, waiting for Danny Cobb to show up and whisk me away to where I want to go. To where I need to go. _

Then someone switched on a light and shattered Drake's illusion along with the comforting darkness. Grunting, Drake cracked open one eye to see it was Danny standing by the light switch. _Figures. _Sighing, Drake pushed himself up onto his elbows.

"We need to check this place out," Danny said softly. "Check this place out, see if it's safe. Find out where we are for starters."

Drake surveyed those in the storeroom and didn't think anyone looked up for what Danny was suggesting. Everyone was either pink-faced with exhaustion or pale-faced with terror. They sat slumped against the walls and shelves or elected to follow Drake's example and simply stretched out across the carpet. Those that didn't appear ready to pass out appeared ready to throw up.

Michelle looked absolutely ashen, her features twitching and contorting, as Sheesh - looking little better himself - tenderly unlaced her boot to examine her badly swollen ankle. Mick had even gone so far as to loosen his tie and undo the first few buttons of his shirt - things he had left untouched throughout the rest of the evening's entertainments. When Briggs removed his helmet and turned it over to set it down at his side Drake was surprised a gallon of water didn't pour out.

"I'll come with you," Hargreaves said, still breathing hard as he pushed away from the wall but the look in his eyes was all business. "Maybe we can find something in the way of medical supplies for your girl around here."

"Me too," Briggs grunted, slowly rising to his feet. "Scaggs can watch the kids while we're gone."

"You too, princess," Danny said, nudging Drake in the side with the toe of his boot. "So long as you're packing you don't leave my sight."

"Aye, aye captain my captain," Drake muttered, giving a sarcastic salute and groaning as he found his feet.

"I'll come too," Sarah said, sounding a little uncertain as she stood up. "Maybe there's somewhere around here where I can actually get a decent signal on this thing or - if not - at least a working phone."

Drake eyed the laptop the girl held clutched to her chest. The fact that she'd had the presence of mind to salvage the device from the bus with those things closing in seemed like a miracle to him. _I hope you've got a second one in you, Doctor Waxer. Let's hope you can get that signal you're looking for and put out an S.O.S. _

"Alright," Danny nodded, "just stick close, doc."

The marshal unlocked the door, turned the knob and stepped into the hallway with his pistol raised, scanning left to right. On the other side was a long corridor that ran straight for about fifteen feet before ending in a sharp right-hand turn. Doors lined either side of the hallway.

With Briggs at his side, Danny moved out into the hall and proceeded carefully forward with his weapon up. After a moment he waved Sarah and Hargreaves through. Drake checked the clip in his Sig before following. There were five bullets left.

_Five bullets for five fools. _Drake snorted, a sardonic grin curling one side of his mouth. _There's a good omen. _Shaking his head, he slapped the magazine back in and trotted to catch up with the others.

The numbers carved into each door along with the tacky wallpaper and paint choices told Drake they had entered a motel. As they moved down the hall, Danny, Hargreaves and Drake tried all the doors on either side but found every last one of them locked.

Drake wasn't surprised by the lack of guests. He supposed it only stood to reason that the city's tourism industry would take a hit in light of recent events.

The juncture led them to the motel's front desk. Behind the desk was a pegboard filled with room keys, memos and a shelf of mailboxes. Tucked away in the corner was a wooden door with a golden plaque that read **OFFICE. **Just across from the counter was a staircase leading up to the next level.

Briggs hurried up those stairs, sweeping the second floor with his M4 before looking back down at the rest of the party and shaking his head - _nada. _Danny checked the front door and found the deadbolt locked but that didn't stop Hargreaves from shoving a couch in front of it just to be on the safe side. Drake stepped behind the desk and picked up the phone - then tossed it back onto its cradle with a sigh.

"No luck," he told Sarah, shaking his head. "Not even a dial tone."

"Well," the girl blew her bangs out of her face as she stepped past Drake to set-up her computer-transmitter-receiver hybrid in the corner. "We'll just have to hope it's as easy as pushing a button then."

Sarah thumbed down the laptop's ON button. A cheery chiming sound greeted her as the device powered up - and a thunderous crash as the office door exploded outwards. It clipped the girl's shoulders as it came down, pinning her beneath it and the weight of the creature squirming across its surface.

Whoever he had been when he'd been alive, the man had been one big boy. The walking corpse was at least six and a half feet tall with thick legs, thick arms and a thick belly. Long, greasy hair spilled down over his shoulders; A long, slimy purple tongue snaked out of his mouth.

Sarah shrieked as she tried to crawl out from under the thing's bulk, its hands grabbing for her struggling arms. "Help! _Help! _Get it off!"

Drake heard Briggs' swear, followed by the lieutenant's heavy footfalls as the Ranger stormed back down the stairs. Danny raised his pistol but the counter was blocking his shot. He heard Hargreaves shouting for Sarah to stay still so he could get a clear angle.

_Goddamn it. _

Without another thought Drake raced in, wrapping his arms around the dead man's neck as he hauled him off Sarah. Even though it was dead the creature remembered the strength it had possessed in life as it grabbed hold of Drake and tackled him to the ground. They grappled and rolled across the floor, the infected clawing at Drake; Drake kicking at the infected.

_Feels like I'm wrestling with a bull! _

A bull that had been dead and sitting in a dungheap for the last month and a half that was. The creature reeked of spoiled fruit and roadkill on a sun-baked highway. He could _smell _the disease coming off the thing in waves. Drake found himself fighting two battles: One to keep the infected from chewing on him, the second to keep his lunch down.

"I can't get a shot!" Briggs called from somewhere behind him.

"Push its head up, Drake!" Danny yelled.

From the corner of his eye, Drake saw Hargreaves pull Sarah across the floor and push the girl behind him. His full attention remained on fending off the monster on top of him. The creature was frighteningly strong and impossibly hungry.

The infected pressed down on his chest with crushing force as if it was trying to push him _through _the floor. Drake tried to wedge his forearm under the creature's throat and growled in revulsion when he felt the thing's face grind across his bare skin instead. The feel of its cold, dead flesh and chipped teeth touching his arm was a stark reminder to Drake that a single bite - a single _scratch - _from one of the infected would mean he'd receive a death sentence long before a New York court judge could hand him one. _Not today, pal. _

Still growling, Drake slammed his elbow into the thing's forehead. The force of the blow knocked the creature's face to one side, giving Drake just enough space to slide his hand up under the zombie's neck, pushing up to lock its lower jaw against its upper jaw. With the infected clutching and clawing at his chest Drake pushed up with one hand then wrapped his other hand around its throat and raised it up further. Sweating, grunting and hissing, Drake lifted the infected's hideous face just above the rim of the counter.

"Danny, take the shot!" He howled, his arms shaking with the effort of trying to keep the thrashing giant in place.

A gunshot split the air. Blood sprayed the lower stacks of mailboxes. All fight left the infected as a soft hissing sound erupted from its throat. Drake gave the thing one more hardy shove and rolled out from underneath the undead titan as it flopped onto its side.

"Fuck me," he panted.

"I guess that's two I owe you now," Sarah said looking down at him with a sheepish smile as she offered him her hand. "Thanks. I...I thought I was going to be part of the continental breakfast there for a second."

"Don't sweat it," Drake said as he took her hand and pulled himself back upright. "Goes with the territory or didn't Danny tell you? I'm a regular Knight In Shinning Handcuffs."

"You all right?" She asked, sparing a look for the man who'd died two deaths.

"Never better," Drake nodded, dusting off his hands. "Actually -"

Sarah gasped, her eyes shooting wide as she reeled back two steps. Hargreaves jumped forward, shoving the girl behind him again as he brought his pistol up and leveled it with Drake's forehead. Too startled and confused to be thinking much of anything, Drake instinctively backed up a step until he heard a soft _click _from over his shoulder. His head snapped around in time to see Briggs bringing up his M4, drawing a bead on the back of his head. Another _click _and Drake saw Danny already had his Sig Sauer trained on him as well.

"Drake," Danny said in a voice that was so calm and controlled it sent a pinprick of terror lancing into Drake's heart, "don't move."

_What the fuck's gotten into everybody? They just figure out I'm not wearing this getup as part of the Mr. Orange Jumpsuit of the Year Competition or something? _Then he felt something wet running between his fingers. Something sticky. Drake looked down. _Oh. _

"Actually," Drake continued, "maybe I _have _been better, now that I think about it."

Tentatively, Drake flexed his fingers and watched fresh blood bubble up through the raw, red teeth marks embedded in his arm.

**Author's Note:** Sorry for the delay in updating. This chapter evolved into quite a long one though. I'm thinking the next chapter will probably be shorter so expect another update soon.


	19. Wounds

**Chapter Eighteen: Wounds**

Rusted springs groaned in protest as Danny settled his bulk down on the foot of the bed. Laying his M4 across his lap, the marshal lowered his face into his hands. He ground his fingertips into eyes that felt worn and tired and a hundred years old. Danny blew out a long, slow breath through his nose and was startled by how cold it felt against his sweaty palms.

Danny tried to analyze, to plan, to _think _but his mind - exhausted and overwrought - rebelled. The task of forming and holding onto anything resembling a coherent thought seemed a Herculean effort and, at the moment, Danny simply wasn't capable of anything of the sort. He tried to stand up instead, to just sit up, to raise his head out of his hands if nothing else but Danny's strength had fled him the moment he sat down and his body refused to obey. So, defeated, paralyzed, frozen in place, Danny Cobb had to be satisfied to just sit and listen to the nothingness around him.

Perhaps nothingness was the wrong word though. There were sounds - ones that reminded the marshal he wasn't the only one feeling rundown and weary as if the last reserves of strength and drive and _will_ had been leeched from his body; from his spirit.

He listened, his eyes sheltered in the darkness cast by the forest of his fingers, to the sounds of ragged breathing and occasional grunts of pain. He could hear Gilson muttering "_He's gone"_ over and over again from the other room but the deputy's voice sounded dream-like and unnatural. It made Danny believe - just for a second - that this _wasn't _real. All those noises were coming from another world not another room.

"He's gone," Gilson murmured from the adjoining suite. "Tuck's gone."

_That's the truth. _Danny dug his fingernails into his forehead until he winced from the stab of pain. This _is the truth, the reality we've been given. Believing anything else is a lie. This is our reality - the one where the dead walk, death hides smiling in every dark corner...and Tuck's gone. _

_Gone _didn't seem to fit either though. Gone was the word you used when your teenage kid ran away from home because they were pissed at you. Gone was the word you used when your wife left you for another man because she got tired of what an insensitive prick you were - Danny had intimate experience with that - but if someone was _gone _they were still out there somewhere.

_Your kid can still come home and give you a teary-eyed apology. You can beg your wife to take you back. _Danny's eyes stung until they began to water but he told himself it was only because he was raking his fingernails down his face. He pressed them in deeper. _Tuck's not _gone_; he's dead. He'll never come home. He'll never clap me on the shoulder again. He'll never smile the next time he hears Michelle bust Sheesh's balls. He'll never draw _a breath _again. _

Danny worked in a business where death was an ever-present threat and yet, for the better part of three decades, he'd been fortunate enough to never lose anyone close to him. _Until today, _he reminded himself, _until today. _

It didn't seem possible that someone he had known for years, someone who had been standing right beside him less than an hour ago, could just _not be there _anymore. Tuck was gone but he was gone _forever_ and the permanence of that word, the sheer irreversibility of it, felt like more than Danny was capable of shouldering. It threatened to push him down, crush him, reduce him to a blubbering wreck.

How could someone he had so many memories of be nothing more than a memory himself now? It was those memories that weighed most heavily on Danny's conscience. They played through his mind, unbidden, like a movie projector with a jammed switch, leaving him helpless to do anything but watch.

_There was that barbeque when we both got so drunk that we passed out. Sheesh and Gilson tied us to chairs and wheeled us out into the front yard. We didn't come too until the next morning. _

_Or that time when it took three of us to keep him from tearing Sheesh's head off when Tuck found out he went on a date with his sister. He practically tore the office apart trying to get at Marty. Sheesh thought he was going to take the beating of his life because we were all too busy laughing to get a decent grip on Tuck. _

_He saved my life too. He'd only been on the team a month when we went into that fucking cesspool of an apartment. Our fugitive had given himself up easy enough, I was slapping the irons on him when his buddy came out of the bathroom in a pretty bad mood though. I would have taken four inches of switch blade in the spine if Tuck hadn't seen him and dropped half a clip in his ass. _

Danny felt something wet running down his face. He bit his tongue until he tasted blood. It was probably only because of that. He should be more careful. He was at a loss to explain why his shoulders were shaking though.

"He's gone," Gilson whispered, barely loud enough to be heard. "Tuck's gone."

_Gilson..._

Danny wondered what that broken projector was playing as it spun its reel through his deputy's mind. Gilson and Tucker had been friends before ever joining the Marshal's Service. The two had become buddies when they'd worked together in SWAT. When Tucker joined the marshal's it was Gilson who had recommended him to Danny.

_Tuck became part of the family but he and Gilson were brothers before I ever even knew his name. If they hadn't come and gone in separate cars they could have been siamese twins as far as I could tell. _

_They went over files together, they trained together, they hit the gym and bars together. Gilson was his best man. Hell, he's even the godfather to both of Tuck's daughters and they were born five years apart. _

Danny's hands froze as they scratched at his face. His teeth stopped worrying his tongue back and forth. Slowly, so slowly, he opened his eyes and starred into the blackness of his palms.

_Oh God..._

"The girls," Danny whispered, grief turning a crooked dagger in his chest.

_Carly and Janice. Five and ten. I was there at Carly's fourth birthday. Tuck was smiling when he lifted her on his shoulders and ran her around the backyard, the both of them laughing like they were possessed. _A strangled noise escaped Danny then. It sounded like a ragged sob but was probably just a hiccup - he got those when he was stressed sometimes. _I'll have to explain to them what happened. I was in charge. It's my responsibility. _

_I'll have to tell them that their daddy won't be there to throw them birthday parties anymore. He won't be there to lift them up on his shoulders or give them piggyback rides anymore. I'll have to tell them that their daddy's gone forever; he won't be coming home because he was torn apart, eaten alive by people - by _things - _that were dead but not dead. I'll have to explain..._

Danny knew there was no explanation he could give though. Explanations required logic and reason and he had encountered little of both since entering Raccoon City. The place was a nightmare some devil had scooped out of a lunatic's brain and breathed life into. There was no reason for Tuck's death and no logic for how he could have died the way he had - except for the ones found in madness.

It was the knowledge of how Tucker died that left Danny forgetting the words of his old trainer, forgetting how to count to ten and find his center. It was that knowledge that left him shattered and sick, shaking and sobbing silently into the hollow of his hands.

_No. No, that's not me. _Danny lowered his trembling, palsied hands and swallowed the stinging, salty brine of his tears. _That's someone else. I have to keep it together. I have the rest of my team to think of - and all the others I need to look out for too. I can't crack up, I can't fall apart. I'm in charge. It's my responsibility. _

_I did everything I could to get us off that street._

Guilt fit like a straightjacket though and for Danny there was no one there to undo all the straps and buckles. Since Tucker's death, Danny had revisited that desperate scene in his mind again and again, trying to reassure himself that there was nothing more he could have done.

The undead had been coming out of the woodwork, stumbling out of every nook and cranny lining the street. He'd feared he might go deaf from all the shouting and shooting shaking his eardrums. He'd checked and re-checked every avenue looking for an escape route but found only more hungry infected with arms outstretched. They had been running low on ammo. He could _smell _the dead all around him; feel the fear of the living behind and beside him.

Then Tucker was moving. Danny had watched him run up to that small shop and tear the board off the front door as if it had been attached with thumbtacks. Tucker had reared back then, ready to hurl himself clear through the door if it was so bold as to try and stand in his way, and someone had called a warning.

_Drake..._

Turning his head, Danny peered into the other room where the rest of the survivors were gathered. Drake sat at the foot of one of the beds, the others keeping a healthy distance from the hitman, save for Homer who knelt in front of the man with a pair of latex gloves on. The doctor carefully and diligently went about cleaning and stitching up the wound on Drake's forearm occasionally asking Sarah to had him something from the first-aid kit Hargreaves had managed to scrounge up from under the front desk.

_Drake tried to warn him. Drake who we all came here for in the first place. Drake who'll be one of those things in...what? A few hours?_

Drake. The man Danny had come all this way for. The sole reason they had for getting caught up in this Godforsaken nightmare. The reason Tucker had died, ripped apart in the street like a piece of raw meat.

_And now Drake's as good as dead too. _Danny shook his head. _Worse than dead, actually. _

Two years. That was how long it took Danny to track Drake down, put him in a pair of handcuffs, get his _hands on the man_. Two years - and it had all come unravelled in the space it took that thing to sink its teeth into Drake's forearm. Two years, Tuck's life, one marriage and countless hours of sleep - all for nothing. In a handful of hours, maybe less, Drake would turn, Danny would have to put a bullet through his head and that would be that.

_All for nothing. _The injustice, the _unfairness_, of that burned beneath Danny's skin like an itch he couldn't scratch. It was infuriating to the point where he wanted to throw the bed over and tear out handfuls of mattress guts. He wanted to jump to his feet and bury his fist in the wall - both fists. He wanted to kick and scream and rail against the cruel twists of fate...but Danny resisted.

He couldn't lose control now - he _wouldn't. _Losing control meant losing hope and if he gave up the faith now he'd be giving up on all the people in the other room. They were still counting on Danny Cobb. They still needed him.

_Poor bastards. I haven't exactly been doing a bang up job of captaining this ship. Sure, I got us out of that riot, kept us alive through a few close calls but...Shivers, Bert, Reggie, Tuck - and now Drake. Christ, I couldn't even keep an eye on my own prisoner. _

It was his fault. That much, at least, was clear to Danny. He understood it. He wouldn't deny it or try to hide from it. He had been the one who forced Drake into coming with them to scout out the rest of the motel - all because the sight of the hitman holding a gun left him feeling a little too antsy to be comfortable letting the man get out of his sight for more than a microsecond.

In the end though, a microsecond was all it had taken. A moment's inattention and the infected had it's hands - and teeth - all over Drake. It was an anomaly, a fluke - but a fluke that had cost Drake his life.

Danny glanced into the next room where Homer was wrapping the convict's arm in a thick gauze bandage. Danny starred at Drake long and hard, thinking if he concentrated hard enough maybe he could see right _into _the other man, watch the changes that even now must be taking place inside him.

Outwardly, Drake appeared no different - a little paler, maybe but that was all. Still, Danny couldn't help but wonder how long that would last. The moment that thing had bite him, the virus would have begun its assault on Drake's immune system. Danny could imagine it speeding through his veins, invading every capillary, overwhelming every cell it came into contact with. Replicating itself a hundred-thousand times a second as it launched its microbial shock and awe campaign.

_How long? _Danny wondered, watching Homer tape the bandage to Drake's arm, making sure it was secure before he snapped off his surgical gloves and carefully tossed them in the wastebasket. _How long before he becomes feverish? How long before he starts to become incoherent...before he passes out? How long after that before he gets back up and attacks us like a rabid dog?_

Danny turned his eyes back to the ground and shook his head. "You sure fucked the pooch on this one, Danny Boy."

A knock on the doorframe made him jump. He looked up to see Sheesh silhouetted in the doorway. Swallowing his gorge, Danny let go a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and pushing himself up to his feet. He waved his deputy forward with one hand, mentally using the other to push away the black tendrils invading his thoughts.

_Time to focus up, Danny Boy, _he told himself firmly. _You've got work to do. _

"What is it, Sheesh?"

"I did like you said, Boss," Marty answered, glancing back over his shoulder into the other suite for a second before turning back. "I took inventory of all our firepower. I checked and double-checked the counts but I didn't find any happy surprises."

"How are we sitting then?"

"Not pretty," Sheesh shook his head. "We're almost totally out of rounds for the M4s. We're not in real rough shape as far as the 9mm supplies go but we don't exactly have an arsenal there either. If we run into another fight like the one we just came from we'll be down to throwing rocks and insults before too long."

Danny sighed, rubbed at his eyes again. "Okay. Okay, thanks Sheesh. Get back and divvy up the rest of it as best you can. It's all we've got left so we're going to have to make it last."

"Roger that." Sheesh turned to leave but stopped before he got halfway. "Hey, Boss, listen...about what happened to Tuck. It...it was...it was just one of those things, you know? There was no way anybody could have known what was waiting on the other side of that door. There wasn't anything more any of us could have done. There wasn't anything more _you _could have done."

"I know," Danny lied. "I know. I'll be alright, Sheesh." Another lie. "Just make sure the rest of the ammo gets sorted out."

Sheesh looked like he wanted to say more but he must have been able to hear the tension in Danny's voice, see it etched in the lines running under his eyes, because the deputy just nodded and walked off to see to his chore. Danny watched Sheesh go, feeling a small pang of remorse as he noted the way the other man had his shoulders slumped and eyes on the floor.

Danny could appreciate what his deputy was trying to do but he was in no mood to be comforted and, quite frankly, didn't feel he was deserving of the effort. He could lie to Sheesh until his tongue fell out but that wouldn't change what he knew to be the God's honest truth - Tucker's death _was _his fault and there _had _been more he could have done to prevent it.

_Because there's always something more you could have done. Something you overlooked, something you never considered. Something you didn't notice. _Danny found his eyes wandering back to where Drake sat, muttering something to Homer as he flexed his fingers, testing out his bandage. The CDC doctor flashed Drake a rueful smile before taking a seat on the opposite bed where Sarah sat wrapping Michelle's ankle. "_There was no way anybody could have known what was waiting on the other side of the door"? You're wrong there, Marty. Drake knew. That's why he screamed at Tuck to stop. Even he couldn't figure it out fast enough though._

That wasn't a condemnation though - just the plain truth. There were certainly a great deal of sins that could be laid at Drake Lincoln's doorstep and the man had his fair share of guilt to collect but Danny wouldn't blame him for his friend's death. No, the burden of that sin was his and his alone to carry. It weighed on him like an anchor tied around his heart, pulling it down, threatening to tear it asunder.

_I'm the one they were looking at to get them out of there, not Drake. I'm the one who couldn't find us a way out. I'm the one who's mind froze up, clicked off. I'm the one who got Tuck killed. _Danny closed his eyes, shook his head violently. _I'm just so _fucking tired. _If I could just sleep for a couple hours - for a couple _minutes _then I could think straight. I could think of...of...of _something. _I could get us out of here. _

A soft knock on the doorframe followed by Sarah's voice - just as soft - saying, "Hey Danny? You got a sec?"

The marshal opened his eyes. There was no time to sleep - not for a few hours, not for a few minutes, not for a few seconds. His people were already looking to him again, unwittingly giving him more opportunities to screw up, to get them killed..._or worse. Just ask Drake what happened the last time I had a bright idea. _They needed him to think of something and _fast. _

"Sure," Danny said, somehow finding the strength to open his eyes once more. "What can I do for you, Doctor Waxer?"

"_Yeesh! _Just Sarah, please." The young researcher wrinkled her face in distaste. "Even my boss doesn't call me _Doctor _and he's got ten different kinds of poles up his ass."

"Sounds like a great guy. How's my girl doing, Sarah?"

"She'll be alright," Sarah glanced back over her shoulder to where her patient lay stretched out across the room's second double-bed. "The good news is I don't think her ankle's broken - just badly sprained. I wrapped and braced it which should make it a little easier for her to get around on it for now. The sprain's bad but she could have come out of that crash in a lot rougher shape. We all _should _have, really."

_Tucker did. _Danny said nothing.

"I'm not really that kind of a doctor though," Sarah added, smoothing a loose piece of hair back behind her ear, "and Michelle's ankle isn't really what I need to talk to you about."

Sarah's eyes drifted back over her shoulder again, landing on Drake this time. Danny followed her gaze and nodded. "No. I guess it's not."

"I took a look and Drake and we're going to need to -"

"How long?" Danny interjected, his eyes cold and stony. He didn't want an explanation, just the facts. _How long before he changes? How long before his eyes turn white and his skin turns gray? How long before I have to put a bullet in him?_

His question flustered her, Danny saw. Sarah's mouth worked silently for a moment as she tried to get her carefully ordered train of thought back on the tracks, stuttering and stumbling over her words as a slight flush crept into her cheeks. Danny watched her and was reminded of a little girl, dressed up in a lab coat, playing doctor.

_That little girl is the closest thing we have to an expert when it comes to this goddamn virus though. _

"It's not that simple," Sarah said once she had pulled her thoughts back into order. "RS doesn't affect its victims in any kind of universal form. It's based on metabolic rate and _that's _influenced by a number of factors. Not to mention you also have to consider any pre-existing medical conditions, the type of injury sustained, how much infected material actually got _into _the injury and -"

"Sarah. Slow it up, back it up and break it down for me like I'm a dumbass. I went to community college, not med school. Just give me the short and sweet."

"R-right. Sorry." Sarah nodded and cleared her throat, the universal symbol for a mental reboot. "Okay. Like I said, if metabolism is the main influence on how quickly the virus progresses then...given Drake's height and weight...I'd say six to twelve hours best case. Worst case scenario...maybe half that."

_Christ. _Danny grunted, snatching off his hat to rake a hand through his hair. "How long until he's symptomatic?"

"He was bitten just over twenty minutes ago so he should be symptomatic _now _but that's probably just pure luck. Maybe he had some extra vitamins with his jailhouse coffee yesterday, who knows?" She shrugged, pushing her hands into the pockets of her lab coat. "I don't think that luck is going to last much longer from what I've seen though. Give it another fifteen to thirty minutes and he'll probably start to show symptoms."

"Fabulous," Danny sighed, tugging his cap back into place. "You've been working on this thing longer than anybody, doc, so level with me. Have you seen anything - _anything _- that can even slow this fucker down?"

"If you want the short answer then it's a resounding _no. _Believe me when I tell you we threw everything short of the kitchen sink at the virus and it still wouldn't go down.

"RS is like a runaway train and from what I've seen there's nothing we can use to so much as gum up its gears. There isn't even anything we can use as an inhibitor. There aren't any drugs or treatments that so much as delay the virus' onset or slow it's progression. Once this bug has it's claws in you it's in for the long haul."

"I'm sensing another _but _somewhere in there, Sarah."

"_But," _she conceded with a nod, "me and Homes weren't the only ones working on this thing either. We were sending all of our research and findings back to the CDC head honchos - at least we _were_. Until the MRRU took a spill and we lost the satellite feed."

"So what?"

"_So, _the CDC has been co-ordinating with the World Health Organization since RS was declared a full scale outbreak and Raccoon was quarantined. _So, _that means a massive amount of people with massive brains are putting in massive hours on trying to solve this little predicament we're in."

Danny nodded, following the girl's tracks. "You think they may have found something you missed."

"Well, I have been a little busy running for my life the last day and a half," Sarah frowned. "All I'm saying is that it's _possible_ the task force has made some kind of a breakthrough. I wouldn't hold my breath waiting for a vaccine if I were you but maybe - and that's a big maybe - they've found something we could use as an inhibiting agent."

_Maybe. Possible. _Danny didn't like the sound of those words. _One day it may be possible for pigs to fly and dogs to shit gold. _The marshal mentally shook himself. _It doesn't matter. It's all we've got to go on right now. _

"This doesn't change anything," he told Sarah, scooping his M4 off the bed and slinging it across his chest. "We still need to get to the emergency shelter. They have to have a radio there that actually works. Then we can get in touch with your people, see if they know anything that can help us."

"Woah," Sarah held up her hands as if Danny was about to bullrush her through the wall. "Easy there, cowboy. Let's not forget that we're still dealing in _ifs _and _buts _here. For all I know my bosses know just as much as you and I. There's no guarantee that the task force will be _any _help to us at all - and that's _if _we can even get in touch with them.

"The VI-COMM isn't something I picked off the shelf at RadioShack because it was on sale. That little gizmo is a multi-million dollar piece of cutting edge communications technology. The fact that I can't get a signal on it has me almost as freaked out as the things trying to eat us. It's also got me coming up with some spooky reasons for _why _I can't get a signal."

Danny raised an eyebrow. "Care to share?"

Sarah chewed her lower lip and averted her eyes, apparently finding something fascinating about the doorframe all of a sudden. That soft flush was burning in her cheeks again and Danny was no longer reminded of a girl playing doctor. No, this was the look of a girl who had been called on to explain her paper to the class and was bracing for a barrage of ridicule.

"I think we're under a communications blackout," she said finally and in a rush - yanking the bandage off in one quick swipe to make it as painless as possible. "I think the reason why we can't get a signal is because we're being jammed."

"Jammed?" Danny resisted the urge to scoff but only because he had been having similar musings lately.

He was no technological engineer but he knew enough about Sarah's toy to understand it was a gadget that had been designed to function under the worst possible circumstances, in the worst possible conditions - if that wasn't Raccoon City then Danny would eat his bootheels for breakfast. Sarah wasn't the only one getting more anxious the longer the VI-COMM stayed offline.

"Just a little bit paranoid don't you think, doc?"

"You think so?" Sarah laughed nervously. "Do you understand the _psychology _of an outbreak, Marshall Cobb? Do you know what the first thing people think is when they read the word 'outbreak' in their morning paper? They think: Thank God, it's not here. That thought is then immediately followed by - What if it gets here though?

"You can't imagine the panic that would be caused if the public heard Raccoon City was in flames, its police force completely crippled, tens of thousands either dead or _walking dead_, the quarantine measures in tatters.

"There would be mass exoduses, people running for the hills just so they didn't take the chance of being near RS if it happens to come knocking at their door. Traffic would be a nightmare and with tensions that high you'd have road rage violence going off the charts - people would die. There'd be lineups at every pharmacy and doctor's office within five-hundred miles, demanding vaccines and medications we _don't have. _Then there's the assholes who would use all the chaos and panic as an excuse to break all the crap they can get their hands on. You think the riots here were bad, well, just imagine that on a country-wide -"

"Okay, okay," Danny held up his hands, palms out, a barricade against the girl's tirade. "I think I got the picture, doc. It still doesn't change anything though. Even if we are being jammed by the government or God-knows-who then what are we going to do? Just sit around and play cards while we wait for the signal to clear?"

Danny stepped closer to Sarah, he settled his hands gently on her shoulders and fixed her with a stern look. He gave her a squeeze that he hoped was reassuring but probably came off as desperate more than anything. _Well, I never was all that good at pep talks anyway. _

"We have to _do _something, Sarah," he said. "It's Drake's only chance. It's _our _only chance."

She looked up at him, doe-eyed and disheveled, nodding slowly. "A-alright. _If _we can get to the civilian shelter and _if _we can find a working radio then I promise you I'll get us out of here. They have to send in _somebody _now - and I mean more than just a squad of Umbrella head-knockers. We need a hot suite - like I recommended in the first place - preferably with the National Guard providing security. Barnes has to see that now that the whole friggin' city is coming down around our ears."

Danny nodded in return, dropping his hands. "I'm not expecting any miracles, Sarah. Just do what you can. If nothing else, we need to buy Drake some time until we can get him some real help."

_It can't all be for nothing. I won't allow it. _

"I'll try...just don't get your hopes up."

Danny managed a small, tired smirk as he stepped past the girl. "Hope is all we've got left, Sarah."

At the moment, the adjoining room more closely resembled a refugee camp than a motel suite. The room was thick with the sour scent of men and women in desperate need of a long, hot shower. Everywhere Danny looked he saw eyes hanging half-open or closed completely. His ragtag band of survivors lay slumped against the floor or leaning heavily against the suite's sparse furnishings. The way their heads would drift down to their chests only to jerk back violently a moment later told Danny that pure willpower was the only thing keeping many of his group on their feet.

Danny turned to where Michelle lay with one leg propped up on a pillow. Her face was tense and lined with creases of pain. Sheesh sat at the foot of her bed, doing his best to be gentle as he guided a boot back onto Michelle's wrapped ankle. It was badly swollen though and it was causing him no small end of trouble. Michelle grunted and hissed as Sheesh shoved her boot back in to place and started doing up the laces.

"Sorry," he said sheepishly. "I hope this doesn't color your opinion of me. Trust me, I have _great _hands."

"Trust _me, _Sheesh," Michelle muttered, "my opinion of you couldn't get any worse."

"How's the leg, Mitch?" Danny asked. He already knew the answer but felt it was his duty to give the woman a break from Sheesh's hijinks all the same.

"Still hurts like a bitch," she answered with another grunt as Sheesh pulled the top laces tight, "but I think I can keep the leg. Should make me a master at hopscotch by the time we get out of here."

Danny nodded and gave her shoulder a pat. He knew she was playing off how much pain she was in, trying to keep the mood light because of what had happened to Tuck. She didn't want him to worry and that broke Danny's heart.

_I am worried though, Mitch. I'm worried that I'll screw up again. I'm worried that I won't know what to do. I'm worried that we won't make it out of here. I'm worried that we'll all wind up like Tuck. _

Danny kept his concerns hidden behind his teeth though. The last thing the others needed to hear were his misgivings. A quick look around the room was enough for him to see that they all had more than their fair share of problems to deal with.

Sarah told him Michelle had been hurt the worst in the crash but Danny knew that, in this case, the good doctor's diagnosis was wrong. Nobody had emerged from that bus unscathed. They all had a healthy helping of nicks and cuts, scrapes and bruises, but there were other wounds as well. Ones that ran deep but couldn't be seen. Ones that left no mark but whose scars never healed.

Danny saw the proof of those wounds whenever he looked into Scaggs' eyes and saw his face reflected in two dark, glassy marbles. He could see their evidence scrawled in the lines on Briggs' face, twisted with rage and guilt. He noticed them in the way Gilson sat huddled in one corner, tapping his head against the wall as he stared straight ahead, so intently, at absolutely nothing.

They had all lost someone close to them in the hell of Raccoon - the same as Michelle and Sheesh...and Danny himself. He could only guess at what Sarah and her party had been through before hooking up with them. He could only imagine the horrors they had been forced to witness, all the people they had been powerless to do anything for but watch die. Since running into them the girl had been sketchy on details and, truth was, there hadn't been much time to trade stories.

_I'm not sure I'd want to listen to those stories anyway. I've got enough scars on my soul to last a lifetime without adding someone else's to them. _

Danny reminded himself of just how little that mattered. He wasn't unique in that anymore. Every single person in this room was nursing the same wounds he was: the ones that didn't touch the flesh but flayed the spirit.

_Maybe I won't have a soul by the end of this but that doesn't mean a damn thing. Right now, I've got a job to do._

"Alright people, listen up," Danny said, moving into the center of the room. "The new plan's the same as the old plan. We're going to make for the shelter at Precinct 24. Once we're there we'll commandeer a radio and try and patch through to the CDC or WHO. Sarah seems to think it's possible her people might have come up with something while we were busy scrambling all over this goddamn city.

"If we can get ahold of them then we might be able to get Drake some help. Sarah says they may have been able to develop some kind of inhibitor...something that slows the virus down." He looked to where Sarah stood, leaning against the doorway into the other room. "She even thinks she can persuade her bosses to help us fly the coup. Right, doc?"

"I'll do everything I can," Sarah replied, answering Danny though her eyes were focused on Drake. "Barnes and the rest of his bureaucrat buddies can't just keep sitting on their hands anymore. We need to get everyone in the city who's still breathing out of here now and reestablish quarantine in an environment we can actually control. The CDC and WHO have the resource to set up a remote site with everything we'd need.

"I'll make them see that. Even if I have to twist arms, break balls or kick and scream like a little girl."

"Radical," Tommy snorted, fiddling with the lenscap on his camera. "That all sounds really honkey-dorey but - correct me if I'm wrong - doesn't this all depend on us _getting_ to the emergency shelter in the first place? What's the brilliant plan for accomplishing _that _little feat? Are we all going to walk out of here hand in hand and prance over there singing _Skip To My Lou_?"

"I hate to admit it, doc, but the talking asshole's got a point," Hargreaves said from where he sat near the room's lone window, legs splayed. "The streets are crowded with those things and we didn't exactly have the good fortune to get holed up in an armory."

"There...there might be another way," Clarke added with a hesitant look towards his partner. "If we can't go across the streets...we could try going _under _them."

"The hell are you talking about?" Briggs growled, arms crossed so tightly they might as well have been grafted in that position.

"The subway extension," Mick said, nodding as he looked at Clarke. "Yeah. Yeah, that might work, kid."

"This place has a subway system?" Scaggs barked a laugh. "Raccoon has what - one-hundred thousand residents? That barely even qualifies as a city in my books. What do you need a subway for?"

"I said subway _extension _not subway _system_, numbskull." Mick scowled. "There's only one-hundred thousand residents in the city _right now_ but half of the Arklay Forest has been designated as a real-estate development site. They're going to clear cut almost fifty per cent of that fucker to build new houses. City council thought upgrading the public transit system might attract more families so the RCTA started construction on a subway last year."

"It's not finished yet," Clarke said, " wasn't scheduled to me for a couple more years but a lot of the tunnels are already in place. Some of them even have track laid already. There's one not far from here - practically just up the street. We could run through the tunnel and come out less than a block from Precinct 24."

"Excuse me?" Sheesh said, raising his hand, only lowering it once all heads had turned his way. "Are we honestly suggesting walking through a goddamn deep, dark tunnel while an army of the undead are looking to tear us apart limb from limb?"

Mick rolled his eyes. "The construction sites were all fenced off and chained up even before the outbreak. There's no way any of those things could have gotten inside." The grizzled old detective turned his gaze to Danny. "It's the closest thing we're going to get to a clear path, Danny. Damn near a straight shot to the shelter at that."

Danny nodded, thinking about the map he had studied tirelessly on the flight to Raccoon. _I knew it was there. It was marked on the map clear as X marks the spot. I should have remembered it. I should have suggested taking that route before. _

"All right, sounds good. Mick, Clarke, you boys lead the way. We can force the doors if we have to. Everyone else -"

"Hold up a minute there, Boss," Gilson grumbled, climbing to his feet. The brawny deputy's eyes were cold and dark. His lips curled and twitched in a way that Danny suspected wasn't totally voluntary. As he padded forward, Danny was uncomfortably reminded of a predator moving towards it's prey. He shoved Homer back a step to stand before Drake, glowering down at the hitman. "If no one's going to talk about the elephant in the room then I guess I'll have to do it."

"What are you talking about?" Danny eyed the other man warily as Gilson rested his hand on the butt of his sidearm. Absently, Danny reached for the grip of his own.

"Don't act like you don't know, Danny." Gilson's voice was the low, black rumble of an approaching storm. "I'm talking about _him." _He stabbed a finger into Drake's shoulder. "He got bit. He's infected. The same as Thorn."

Suddenly Danny was back in the gym with the _**MacPhee Marauders**_ mural behind him and the creature that had been Thorn staggering towards him. Gilson was raising his pistol, Danny saw it out of the corner of his eye but it was too late, his deputy was already wrapping his finger around the trigger. He screamed for him to stop but Gilson either didn't hear or chose not to. The shot burst in his ears like the crack of a whip and Thorn's head snapped back, blood misting the wall behind him.

Danny came back to himself and pictured Gilson drawing his pistol again, wrapping his finger around the trigger as he failed to listen to Danny's command to halt once more. This time it was Drake's head that snapped back, blood and worse splattering the beige motel room wall behind him in a messy spray.

He thumbed the safety off on his own weapon as Homer tried to negotiate his way in between Gilson and Drake. _Just in case. He was cracking up and that was before we lost Tuck. Those two were close as brothers. Who knows what Gilson's capable of now. _

"Listen to me, Mike," Homer said slowly, with both hands raised, "I think I know where you're going with this but we need to keep a cool head here. We still don't know enough about RS to make any rash decisions. We -"

"Fuck that," Gilson spat, shoving the researcher back until he bumped into Sarah who latched onto his arm with both hands. "What we _need _to do is blast this piece of shit right here and now. If we don't then he'll turn on us - same as Thorn did. It's just a matter of time. That's what this motherfucker is now - a time bomb."

"Gilson!" Danny barked. "Back off. _Now._"

Gilson looked past Danny, apparently his selective deafness just as strong as it had been back in the gym. He fixed his eyes on Clarke and what Danny saw in them chilled him. He was no longer reminded of a predator stalking prey. No, the expression in those eyes was wild and half-crazed. It was the expression of a rabid dog or caged wolf, ready to snap at any hand that came too close.

"Come on man, back me up here," Gilson implored the young cop. "You were the one who tried to warn us about Thorn. We should have listened and scragged him right then and there. Would have saved us a lot of trouble later."

_We could have saved ourselves all that trouble if you had just listened to me. _"Gilson, back off now. I won't ask you again."

"Come _on,_ Clarke! You _know _we can't let him come with us! He's fucking _infected!_"

"I...I think we're going to need everyone's help if we're going to make it to the shelter, Mike." Clarke's tone mirrored the nervous anxiety in his eyes as he glanced around the room, noting all the people touching hands to guns.

Briggs and Scaggs counted among that number now as did Hargreaves who had been on his feet the moment Gilson placed a hand on Homer. Danny didn't know how the two researchers had wound up in the company of the Umbrella security guard but from the way the man behaved he had adopted the role of guard dog for the pair. His fully, snarly beard even reminded Danny of raised hackles now.

"Just take it easy, Mike," Clarke went on, his turn to do the imploring now. "Calm down. We're going to need his help to get there, he's gotten us out of some tight spots before and he's _still _human now. Sarah said she might even be able to get him some help if -"

"Sarah's full of shit!" Gilson boomed, thunder in his voice, lightning flashing behind his eyes. The storm had arrived. "The only cure is a bullet between the eyes. I've got all the help he needs right here!"

Gilson unholstered his Sig and that was all it took. In less than a heartbeat there were four pistols trained on him from nearly every angle. The burly marshal ignored the other three and looked back at Danny. After all, it was his sidearm that was pressed against the side of Gilson's head.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" The big man snarled. "_You're _going to draw down on me, Boss? You're going to protect this son of a bitch?"

"That son of a bitch is what we came here for," Danny spoke with a calm he didn't feel, marveled that the hand holding the gun against Gilson's temple wasn't trembling so badly he dropped the damn thing. "That son of a bitch is what Tuck died for."

Not for the first time, Danny wondered if this was all really happening, if he was even really here, stuck in this horrific moment. _Jesus. This is Mike Gilson for the love of God. We shoot pool at the bar on Saturdays and bitch about our ex-wives. I was at his daughter's graduation...and now I'm holding a gun to his head. _

"You're wrong." Spittle flew from Gilson's lips as he spoke. "Tuck died because _you_ couldn't make a decision, Danny. We needed you to get us off that goddamn street and you _couldn't._ The only reason he kicked down that door was to try and save all our asses - because you _couldn't. _Tuck died for you, _Boss_."

Danny reeled as if the man had hit him in the sternum. It wasn't the acid in Gilson's words that staggered him but his cool, calm reiteration of the facts. It was as if Gilson had invaded his mind, picked out all of Danny's black thoughts, all his dark doubts, and hurled them back in his face.

_It was one thing to believe that as the truth...it's another thing to have someone lay it out for you plain like this. _

"Why don't you all just stop talking about me like I'm not in the same fucking room as you?" Drake exploded off the bed, a fire in his eyes like nothing Danny had ever seen before. The hitman was usually infuriatingly cool but his icy exterior was melting fast now. "You talk the talk, Gilson, but do you have the balls to back any of it up? What are you waiting for? You want to shoot me - go on then. _Shoot._"

"Don't think I won't, you -"

"I _don't _think you will," Drake countered. "Here, I'll even help you." Drake's hand was quick as a flash of lightning as it wrapped around the barrel of Gilson's pistol and pressed it firmly to his forehead, holding it in place. "Either pull the trigger or get this fucking thing out of my face."

"Let go, you piece of shit!" Gilson's hand was trembling as he fought for control of the weapon. He was twice Drake's size but the big man's hand was shaking and Drake's seemed carved from stone. "I'm warning you, I'll -"

"I'm giving you to the count of three, Gilson."

"Drake, what the fuck are you doing?" Danny growled, sweat beading across his brow, dripping into his eyes. It was cold and stung his eyes. _He's lost it too. _

"Stay out of this, Danny," Drake's eyes shifted to Danny's for a heartbeat before drawing even with Gilson's again. "One."

"I'll do it!"

"Prove it. Two."

"This is your last warning, you fucking -"

"No. It's _your _last warning."

"I'll -"

Drake's hand wasn't a flash of lightning or a blur of color this time. Rather, it was more like a snake. It coiled and twisted around the pistol shoving it to one side as he yanked Gilson's arm forward. The brawny deputy let out a startled cry as he fought for balance. By the time he had regained his feet he had lost his sidearm. Drake held it now, pressed flush against Gilson's hairy cheek, seemingly unconcerned with the three other weapons that had shifted his way in the split second it had taken him to disarm the marshal.

_That virus doesn't seem to be slowing his reflexes down at all. _Danny's hands were slick on the grip of his pistol, he could feel it starting to slip. _Christ, he's fast. _

"See?" Drake smiled unpleasantly at Gilson. "It's annoying isn't it?"

"Drake," Danny said firmly, "you let him go. You do it now and you do it real slow or I _won't _hesitate."

For several long, drawn out heartbeats Drake stood starring down the barrel of the gun at Gilson's flushed, puffy face. To Danny it seemed everyone had suddenly decided to play statute - no one moved a step, batted an eye, spoke a word. The whole room seemed to be holding its breath as the murderer stood with his finger on the trigger.

Then, Drake slowly looked up and to Danny's eternal surprise he saw the man was actually _grinning. _The ice was back in the killer's eyes, frosted lightly with that shimmering look of mirth and amusement that made Danny want to toss the man through the nearest wall. Slowly, he lowered the Sig, spun it on his palm and held it out to Gilson.

"Just making a point, Danny." Drake smiled. "No hard feelings. Right, Gilson?"

The deputy was so red he bordered on apoplectic but he said nothing, snatching his gun out of Drake's hand and jamming it back into its holster. Before he could entertain any thoughts about drawing it again Sarah was in front of him. Mike Gilson had an easy one-hundred-fifty pounds and a full foot on Sarah Waxer but that didn't deter the good doctor from planting her hands on the man's chest and shoving him back a full step.

"You boys and your toys," she snorted with disgust.

The girl stomped around the room grabbing the hands that were still holding firearms and pushing them down. When she was done her quick parade of non-violence Sarah stopped in front of Drake and fixed the rest of them with a look Danny suspected would have made flowers wilt and plants dry up.

"Can any of you go five minutes without waving your guns in someone's face?" She asked, planting her hands on her hips. "Look, I get it, okay? I know we're all pretty tired and we're all _really _fucking scared but is a little solidarity too much to ask for? If we stand _any _chance of getting out of this place alive it's through working together - not tearing each other's throats out. In case you've been walking around with your heads packed up your asses - which I'm starting to think most of you are - everything _else _in this city is already trying to do that for us!"

Danny looked down at the pistol in his hands and felt suddenly foolish, as if his mother had just caught him squabbling with his brothers over something meaningless. He secured his weapon and glanced around to see the others doing the same, many wearing the same expressions of shame and sheepishness he knew was now planted firmly over his own features.

_That girl might not be much of an imposing sight but she sure can command presence when she wants. _

"Thank you," Sarah blew the bangs out of her eyes before going on. "Now, in case there's any confusion let me make something perfectly clear. _I'm _treating Drake and that makes him _my _patient. That means he's under _my _protection and - gentlemen - if any of you try to screw with my patient I _will _be forced to rip your balls off and hand them back to you one at a time."

"I don't think any us doubt that, doc," Hargreaves said with a small grin.

_Amen brother._ Danny nodded. He wouldn't put anything past the girl. She could be awfully persuasive when she wanted to be and when something set off her fuse she became a dynamo. _Maybe she's not just playing doctor, after all. _

"Good," Sarah smoothed back her ponytail and nodded at Clarke. "This subway extension. You know the way, detective?"

"Y-yeah," Clarke said still looking a little unbalanced by everything that had just taken place but he nodded gamely after a second. "Yeah. The construction site isn't far. We can be there in no time if we hurry."

"Awesome. You're on point then, soldier." Sarah nodded at Danny this time. "That pretty much the gist of what you were getting at, Marshal Cobb?"

"Pretty much," Danny nodded, even managing a small smile for the doctor. "Just Danny. Only my bosses call me _Marshal Cobb _and they've all got ten different kinds of poles up their asses."

For a moment, Sarah looked at Danny as if he might have lost his mind but then a slow, gradual smile spread across her lips. She nodded and the marshal knew they had come to some sort of understanding though he was at a loss to explain just what sort.

"Sheesh," he looked over to where the skinny deputy stood watch at the foot of Michelle's bed, "you still up for carting around, Mitch?"

"Are you kidding, Boss?" He answered, already sliding Michelle's arm across his shoulders. "This girl and I are practically connected at the hip now. You couldn't pry her off me with a crowbar."

Michelle grimaced and rolled her eyes as Sheesh helped her up to her feet. "Don't let that stop you from trying though."

"Alright, everyone else grab your gear and saddle up. We're out of here."

Within moments, Danny had his motley crew moving again. They made their way back through the motel and down to the ground level where Hargreaves and Scaggs unbraced the door. Danny flipped the deadbolt and settled his fingers around the door handle. Before he pulled it open, letting in a flood of golden daylight, Danny closed his hands and said a silent prayer.

_Please God - if you're up there and still listening - if anyone else has to die before this thing is through...then let it be me. _

**Author's Note:** I know some of you probably had your update alerts going crazy when I tried putting the last chapter up. I was trying to upload in .doc format and FF was having a problem posting the chapter in that format (every other paragraph appeared jammed together as if I hadn't put in any spacing). Unfortunately it took me a while to realize the formatting was the problem (duh) so _that's_ why you got a bazillion update alerts. Eventually I posted the new chapter in .html and that worked like a charm. I apologize for flooding your inboxes needlessly though.

Anyway, please read, review - and, most importantly - enjoy this chapter!


	20. The Dark

**Chapter Nineteen: The Dark**

"Yeah," Sheesh muttered, staring down the tunnel's black throat. "Yeah, this is a good idea."

Sarah stood next to the deputy, watching as Danny's flashlight pierced soft shadows only to reveal the thicker, deeper darkness hiding behind them. Sarah, who had never been afraid of the dark - not even as a child - wasn't about to add her sentiment to Sheesh's but she _did _have to admit Detective Clarke's plan seemed a great deal more brilliant when they were back hatching it in the motel. Now though, peering down into that gaping black maw...she wasn't so sure.

Maybe the subway tunnel was nothing more than Clarke had said it was: a convenient shortcut; a passage to safety - but there was no way to know for certain. Sure, the construction site had been secure enough when they arrived - Mick had to blast the lock off the front gate - but Sarah doubted the flimsy chain-link fences surrounding the area would give some of the creatures she had seen prowling the city any trouble.

_Those red devils could probably scramble over these things before you could bat an eye, _Sarah mused as she looked around at the site's meagre fortifications. The fences might discourage troublemaking teenagers but she didn't think the clawed, scaly Trolls that had torn the MRRU apart would be so easily deterred. _They'd just go Superman and leap the fences in a single bound. _

A hundred things could be hiding in the darkness beyond Danny's light. The tunnel was a black corridor concealing dark mysteries. To Sarah it was a complete _unknown. _

There had been a time where mysteries and the unknown had been a source of immeasurable excitement for Doctor Sarah Waxer. Mysteries existed to be solved. Each clue that was uncovered gradually allowed the unknown to become known.

Sarah knew that was why she found so much pleasure in her work for the CDC. Every day was a thrill as she hunted to uncover the clues that would allow her to solve the mysteries of disease - some of which had existed for decades just waiting for her to come along and take a crack at them. Every day her job was to study disease, find out what made the microscopic buggers tick and figure out how they could be controlled, treated and eradicated. Her career had taught her the pursuit of the unknown was an adventure; a game she was exceptionally skilled at playing.

One night in Raccoon City had turned _that _little fantasy on its head. Here, the unknown was nothing to get excited over; it was nothing to be _played _with. In Raccoon every shadow could be hiding some unnatural, inhuman monstrosity just waiting to wrap its jaws around your neck. Around every blind corner lurked the soulless denizens of the city, robbed of the vestiges of their humanity. Here, the unknown meant death...or worse.

_Just ask Drake if you need a reminder of that, princess. _Sarah told the voice to shut up but her mind was too tired and overwrought to be in any mood to listen to her commands. _Still think this is a game - now that you aren't safely tucked away in your laboratory with a microscope wedged between you and this microscopic piece of Hell? Either way, you're playing with your life now, girl. _

Sarah sighed and rubbed at her eyes. She could beat herself up all she wanted but it wouldn't change a damn thing. She was where she was - it was as simple and terrible as that.

The illustrious Doctor Waxer was smack dab in the middle of a city that had lost its mind, its humanity and its soul. She was trapped in a waking nightmare. Some people talked about Hell on Earth with a sarcastic grin on their face - well, she was living through it.

_Maybe, _Sarah wondered, _I should be grinning too. It's pretty funny, right? When Barnes came to me about this case I practically jumped onto the plane with a death-grip on Homer's arm. _

_ I was _happy _to come here. I wanted to be where the action was, get up close and personal with RS. I was going to study it, know it, master it and make it my bitch. I was going to wipe it out with a wave of my magic wand. _

_ They'd put my picture in all the books after that. I'd write papers for _The Lancet and the _AMA. Next would come the book deal then, not long after, the feature film. In a couple years I'd retire to the Bahamas sipping Pina Coladas while Hector the Cabana Boy rubbed my feet by the pool. _

Another sigh. _Boy, oh boy, girl. For a child prodigy you sure are a real dumbass most of the time. _

"We're not seriously going in there, right?" Sheesh's plaintive tone drew Sarah from the depths of her self-recriminations. "_Right?_"

"We're going in there," Briggs said shortly. "If you don't like that idea then head back to the street and try hailing a cab. Call us when you get there."

"The tunnel's sealed, Marty," Clarke said, offering reassurances that Sarah felt lacked a reassuring amount of conviction. "It's as safe as any place in the city."

"That's not saying much," Sheesh grumbled, squinting down the dark passage again.

"I gotta admit guys," Tommy said, rubbing the back of his neck, "this doesn't seem like such a shit-hot idea anymore. I mean...we're going to _walk _through the _dark _without a clue as to what's waiting around for us in that hole? I know it's easy to criticize but -"

"We already came all this way," Danny said, cutting the photographer off without looking back at him. "There's no turning back now. The longer we hang around here debating with our thumbs up our asses just gives more time for those _things _out there to zero in on us.

"Let's just get this over with. Clarke said it's a straight shot - one side to the next. We move as fast as we can, we stick tight together, we watch our backs. I'll take the lead."

Without leaving any time for rebuttal, Danny moved forward, switching on the flashlight mounted to the barrel of his assault rifle before stepping through the subway tunnel's mouth with Briggs following close at his right. After watching the pair slip into the shadows Sheesh sighed before helping Michelle back to her feet and together the two hobbled after their friends. Grunting sourly under his breath, Gilson followed a step behind.

"Hey, watch it!" Tommy shouted, glaring back at Mick as the old detective gave him a push in the back to get the younger man moving. Once he started forward Mick and Clarke fell in on either side of the would-be paparazzo. Their posture reminded Sarah of two men escorting a prisoner to make sure he didn't bolt while on his way to trial and she had to wonder if that wasn't their intention.

Scaggs followed behind them. Homer, who was standing next to the sergeant, flashed a rueful glance back at Sarah before offering an apologetic shrug and hurrying to catch up with the Ranger. Hargreaves dogged his steps.

She watched them go, heading towards that yawning black chasm. Anything could be in there. _Everything _could be in there - the red devils, the Trolls, a horde of the undead, all just waiting to devour them and leave nothing but a pile of bones to mark their passage.

Sarah felt as if she was rooted to the ground. Starring into the darkness left her terrified, paralyzed. She told herself she wouldn't be afraid. She dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands, willed herself to get her legs moving but nothing worked. She _was _afraid. Afraid of the darkness that was waiting for them and -

A flash of movement in the corner of her eye as Drake started to move past her. His orange jumpsuit faded to a muted shade of yellow in the sun's pale light. He started past her with his jaw set, pistol held loosely in one hand, a bloody bandage wrapped around one arm. Her hand shot out on impulse, grabbing his elbow.

Drake looked down at her with an eyebrow cocked and askance flickering in his cold, deep eyes. Sarah blushed, feeling suddenly as if she were twelve years old again. She snatched her hand away, holding it guiltily behind her back.

"Hi - um - how are you feeling?"

Sarah winced. _Moron. _Whoever he was, Drake hadn't earned that orange uniform for handing out the most Girl Scout cookies. Due to the unorthodox circumstances she hadn't even had an opportunity to find out what the man was wanted for but the charges must have been severe. After all, they warranted an escort of two local officers and a team of U.S. Marshals. For all she knew Drake got his kicks robbing banks at sunup and throwing old ladies off their balconies at sundown.

_Plus, to top it all off, he's infected with what's just become the worst virus known to mankind...and I asked him how he's feeling. I guess this is the part where my neck gets snapped like a popsicle stick. Or, at least, I hope it is. _

Instead, all Drake said was, "I'm good."

It was Sarah who cocked the eyebrow this time. "What? Care to elaborate on that?"

"I'm good," he said again with a small grin. Sarah had to admit it was a handsome grin even if it was on the face of a bank robbing granny killer who was about to join the ranks of the walking dead in a few hours. "Arm hurts a little but I'd say that's nothing unusual. Then again, you're the doctor not me."

Sarah's eyebrow climbed so high that it began to ache. She made a conscious effort to lower it while wondering just what was at play here. Drake had been bitten hours ago...and he was _"good"_? Sarah was certainly lacking any hard medical data that pointed to the contrary...but that _couldn't _be right. Was Drake already so sick he wasn't even aware of his symptoms?

Sarah scoffed inwardly and dismissed that notion almost as soon as it entered her mind. The man certainly didn't _look _sick. At least not like any RS patient she had seen - and since landing in Raccoon City, Doctor Waxer had seen more than her fair share of those, thank you very much.

His eyes were clear, alert, free of any cataracts and nearly as handsome as that roguish grin of his was. His breathing appeared normal and unlabored. His skin was healthy and flushed. He wasn't complaining of any pain or scratching at the bite on his arm - a characteristic that had been shared universally by RS victims from what Sarah had been able to determine. Drake _appeared _hale, healthy and whole but still...

"Are you _sure, _you're all right?" She asked, pressing her palm to his forehead before he could mount any protest. His brow was damp with sweat but there wasn't a trace of fever that she could detect. "No nausea or dizziness? Headaches? You said your arm hurts...is it itchy too?"

"Itchy? Christ, doc, are you worried that thing gave me the zombie virus or a case of crabs?"

"Just answer the question, smart-ass."

"I'm fine, really," Drake said managing another one of those whispering grins. "Listen, the second I start feeling hinky or like I'm about to wig out I'll let you know. I need you to trust me on that. I know that might be kind of hard to do given the fact that when we met I was wearing a pair of handcuffs but...well...those are the breaks given our situation."

Sarah looked at him for a second then nodded slowly. "All right, fine but you better mean that, Drake. If _anything _changes - no matter how small or insignificant you think it might be - you tell me the _second _it happens. Roger?"

"Hey!" Hargreaves shouted back to them, standing at the entrance to the tunnel now. "Move it or lose it, you two!"

"Ten-four," Drake said, giving her a mock salute before turning towards the subway tunnel. He took two steps before stopping and glancing back at the young virologist from over his shoulder. "Listen, doc. Thanks for...thanks for sticking up for me back at the motel. Whatever else happens, I want you to know that I appreciate what you did there."

That was the last thing Sarah had expected to hear. Stunned, she opened her mouth, fumbling for a response but Drake was already moving again, waving back an agitated looking Scaggs and Harry Hargreaves.

_He saved my life back at the motel. He got _bit _saving _my _life and now _he's _thanking _me? Sarah didn't think that could be right either. Hargreaves gave another holler and this time she finally managed to find her legs and get moving again.

Sarah dropped into step beside Homer and grabbed hold of his arm as they marched into the dark passage. She told herself it was only because she needed to get his attention and didn't have _anything _to do with an irrational, downright childish fear of the dark. It was a lie she could only half believe.

"We need to talk," she said, pitching her voice low.

"Sure," Homer answered in a whisper, "but would you mind easing up a little? You're going to draw blood if you dig your fingers in any deeper."

"Sorry." Sarah loosened her grip on his arm but not by much. "It's Drake. I just checked him and he's still not showing any symptoms. I mean_ zilch." _

"Nothing?" The surprise was plain in his voice. Homer glanced at this watch, the hands lighting up neon green in the thick shadows. "He was bitten two hours ago - just _over _two hours ago actually. Those reports you lifted off Burke mentioned patients exhibiting symptoms after at least that long."

"Reports _we _lifted, bud." Sarah reminded him. "You were an accessory before, during and after the fact in case you forgot. Anyway, yeah there's the reports but Hargreaves said he saw some of the hospital staff turn within _minutes _of being infected. Then there's Drake...who's just fine and dandy it seems."

Homer pulled his glasses off, squeezing the bridge of his nose. It was a pose Sarah had seen the old man strike a hundred times before but usually it was when they were cramped up in his office pouring over reports at three in the morning. Not walking through an abandoned subway tunnel that was heavy with the scent of wet earth and harsh chemicals.

"It could be anything," he sighed. "We've seen the virus change itself before - evolving. You even theorized it transformed from an airborne strain so that it could survive, replicate itself better amongst a denser population of hosts. Maybe this is another kind of mutation - another kind of adaptation - that allows it to stay dormant within a host for longer."

"Dormant?" Sarah let her mind chew on that thought for a bit. "Well, we've compared it to AIDS before and that would fit. I suppose it _could _function the same way HIV can: the host infects others without ever developing the disease themselves...but...come on. _Two hours_? That's a pretty dramatic mutation even for this thing."

"Like I said," Homer replied, up ahead the others were talking but Sarah was too absorbed in her own mental wanderings for their conversations to register as anything more than background noise. "Could be anything."

"Yeah," she nodded, trudging along through the near total darkness, her nostrils burning with that chemical reek. "Which means it could be something that we haven't considered yet."

When it came to the academic circles she ran in, Sarah Waxer had always felt like an olympic hurdler competing against an eighth grade gym class. She flew past or sailed over obstacles and queries that left her colleagues stumped. In her field, there were few who could keep pace with her. It served to be both a source of boundless - and guilty - pleasure as well as seemingly endless frustration. She suspected it was also the reason why her love life was in such a state of stagnation it might as well have been fossilized.

Homer though...Homer had always been able to understand her with minimal data. Whereas her fellow doctors and researchers often needed nothing short of a detailed illustration to grasp her concepts, Homer sometimes picked out her meaning before Sarah was even fully aware of what she was trying to get at. She had even suggested once that they hook themselves up to an EKG to see if they shared the same brainwaves.

Sarah knew it was this quality, more than her inflated IQ or his decades of experience, that made them such a good one-two punch - and allowed her to tolerate Homer when he was being a dried up old fart or a wet blanket. It was that quality that had led her to drag him out of retirement and accompany her on this dark misadventure. And it was that quality that made him glance at her with a moment's confusion before his eyes cleared, widening as he grasped what she was getting at.

"You're talking about the one percent factor, aren't you?" He slid his glasses back into place and shook his head. "I think it's a little early to be talking about whether or not Drake is among those who could actually be _immune._"

"But he _could _be immune."

"Of course he _could _be," Homer said with an exasperated sigh. "Based on what I saw last night I'm starting to think it's possible pigs _could _grow wings and fly to the moon too."

"No need to go all sour milk on me, Homes." Sarah shoved her hands into the pockets of her grimy lab coat. "I'm just saying it's _possible. _A little optimism wouldn't you kill you, either. Think about it. If he _is _immune we could use his blood to try and synthesize a vaccine - maybe even draw up the blueprints for an anti-virus. We could _save _some people still!"

I _can still save some people. I can solve this. It wouldn't all be for nothing..._

Sarah stumbled, nearly fell as Homer grabbed hold of her arm and pulled her to a halt. She looked up and even in the dim light cast by the marshals' flashlights she could see the concern etched into the lines on her partner's face. Feel it in the strength of his grip.

"Sarah," Homer began slowly, "you have to know what a pipe dream that sounds like right now. We haven't seen a single instance of RS immunity. What we have seen are hundreds of cases like Drake's and they've all ended in infection. Even if Drake was immune and even _if _we had the equipment to take a sample of his blood it could take months before a vaccine was synthesized, tested and approved. By then this place wouldn't be anything more than a pile of smoking rubble."

Maybe it was his cool, calm tone. Maybe it was the way he spoke slowly, as if every word he chose had been carefully measured and weighed first. Maybe it was their mysterious psychic connection or those shared brainwaves but somehow Sarah knew Homer wasn't worried that she actually believed any of what she was saying. What bothered him was what she might _not _believe in anymore.

_Like reality. I gotta admit, everything I just said sounds pretty crazy - even to me. Can't imagine what it must be like for Homer Let's-Look-At-This-Logically Shields to hear me going on like that. Don't worry, Homes, I'm not about to crack up. I just need a little hope to keep me going. _

Sarah smiled, reached over and touched Homer's big, hairy, caveman hand gently. Sure, he could be a dried up old fart and a wet blanket but, at the end of the day, he was _her _dried up old fart and wet blanket. _One who spends more time worrying about a screw-up like me than I deserve. _

"Doc!" Hargreaves shouted from a few feet further up the tunnel, his voice echoing eerily through the dank corridor. "Don't go falling behind now!"

Sarah turned back to Homer and gave him another warm reassuring grin. "I know, Homes, I know." She patted his hand. "A girl can dream though, can't she?"

The others waited until the pair caught up before continuing on, Danny and Briggs still at the head of their human convoy. Their footfalls beat a cold, hollow rhythm that seemed to trail off into eternity, echoing through the black tunnel. Sarah was lost in thought, staring at the back of Drake's head when Hargreaves pulled up beside her, gave her a nudge with his elbow.

"Hey," he said in the same conspirator's whisper she had used with Homer only moments ago. "There something going on that I should know about, doc? You keep dropping off to the side of the road for these little private pow-wows."

Sarah grinned. She knew if she didn't get a hold of herself then she was in serious danger of developing a major crush on Harry Hargreaves. Maybe he looked like a lumberjack in a bullet proof vest and appeared about as cuddly as a piece of sandpaper but there was something to be said about a man with strong protective instincts.

_Besides, he doesn't look so bad in that uniform...lumberjack vibe aside. If only I were twenty years younger or he had a PhD in advanced microbiology. _

"Everything's fine," she said, nudging him back. "I was just having a...meeting of the minds is all. Sharing some ideas. Trying to figure some things out." Her eyes drifted back to Drake. He must have sensed her gaze because he glanced back her way. Sarah lowered her eyes.

"Meeting of the minds, huh?" Hargreaves watched Drake until he turned back around. The Umbrella guard nodded. "All right, doc, so long as you say everything's good. You stick close though, you hear? You and Homer. I can't keep an eye on you if you're always trailing behind me."

Sarah smiled, she even managed a tired chuckle much to her own surprise. "Careful, Harry. You keep acting like my guard dog and I'm going to start calling you Rex."

Now it was Hargreaves' turn to smile. "Just doing my job, Sarah."

"Fuck!" Scaggs hollered from where he walked alongside Tommy. Everyone around him jumped, their flashlights weaving crazy patterns along the earthen walls. They bathed the Ranger in pale light as he stood rubbing his neck. The sergeant's face was twisted with disgust. "Something wet just ran down the back of my neck."

Sarah closed her eyes and let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Her stomach ceased the trampoline act it had gotten up to.

"Probably just water run-off from the streets," Clarke said, squinting up into the darkness above. "Nothing in here's been paved over yet."

"It's warm," Scaggs held his fingers to his nose then recoiled with a harsh grunt. "Smells like shit too. You guys smell that too, right? This whole place stinks."

Sarah _did _smell it and not for the first time either. The entire tunnel was rank with a pungent, putrid potpourri. The aroma was a mix of methane, harsh cleaning agents and something that smelled like paint thinner but wasn't.

_Why does it smell so freaking familiar? _It reminded Sarah of the CDC labs after they had been sterilized but that still wasn't quite it either. _I've smelled this before. _

"Maybe they ran some pipes through here or something," Danny offered, lifting his light towards the ceiling.

_But where?_

"In a subway?" Mick asked, doing the same.

Then she remembered. _In the restaurant we were hiding in last night. _Sarah's eyes shot wide. Her mind screamed a jagged alarm. _Oh God._

Danny and Mick's lights found it at the same time. Their narrow beams trailed over the devil's body, revealing it one feature at a time. Sarah watched, numb and paralyzed, as the shadows gave birth to a sleek, muscular figure, long bloody claws and a monstrous face with eyes as dark as the tunnel's far end. Above that black gaze was a bulbous mass of grey brain matter and below it, a pair of jaws opened to reveal rows of yellow fangs dripping with thick, viscous saliva.

Scaggs looked up as the fat black rope of the devil's tongue snapped out like a whip, coiling around his throat. The Ranger's eyes bulged then disintegrated in a spray of bloody mist as the creature flung itself on top of him, _crunching _his face between those powerful jaws.

Scaggs' legs twitched beneath the beast's strong, sinewy shape. It grunted and growled, snuffling wetly as it dug into its meal. More bones _crunched. _More blood sprayed. Tears streaming down her cheeks, mouth gaping, Sarah fell to her knees.

"_Scaggs no!" _Briggs screamed before the bark of gunfire interrupted him.

Fire spat from the barrel of Drake's pistol. Ragged bloody holes erupted across the creature's broad back as it chomped and chewed on the mess of Scaggs' skull. The devil looked up, its hideous face dripping crimson drool as more slugs tore through its chest and shoulders. The thing starred at Drake, almost curiously, as his gun clicked dry before scrunching its already twisted face into nightmare snarl. The jaws that had spelled the end of Scaggs' life parted, mangled brain matter and dark gore splattering the ground as a dark roar clawed its way out of the devil's black throat.

Wincing, Sarah clamped her palms over her ears and wailed as hands grasped her shoulders and hauled her back to her feet with a desperate strength. Those hands whirled her around and through the tears blurring her vision she saw Drake Lincoln's sweaty, strained face. He shook her.

"We have to go!" He pulled Sarah along after him, his scream just one of many.

More gunshots echoed like thunder in the dark of the tunnel. Harry Hargreaves pushed past her, the slide of his pistol kicking wildly. Detective Clarke was at his side, firing with wide eyes. The devil hissed and squealed as it was battered back by the torrent of hot lead. The creature slunk away from its prize, reluctantly retreated as bullets ripped strips from its muscular haunches and sides.

With the monster giving up ground, Hargreaves slide in and unholstered Scaggs pistol, throwing it almost carelessly back to Clarke who opened up on the red devil with both weapons. The beast shrieked, snaking its tongue through the air as if trying to ward the two men off. Hargreaves holstered his own weapon and reached for Scaggs assault rifle.

Sarah saw the Ranger's body for the first time since the creature had pounced on him. All that remained of Scagg's head was the back of his skull. The rest of his face had been reduced to a mashed pulp of bone fragments and flaps of skin. Blood stained the area around Hargreaves' boots as he fumbled for the fallen man's weapon.

Clarke swore as the pair of handguns went cold in his hands with a hollow series of clicks. He called out a warning, scrambling for another magazine. The red devil, a mess of torn tissue, tensed up like a bull shark ready to charge. Hargreaves' struggled to level the rifle even as he slipped through what was left of Scaggs.

"_Harry!"_ Sarah's cry was as raw as the gunshot wounds lining the devil's body as it closed the distance between itself and Harry Hargreaves in a single leap.

The creature pulled up short as, even off balance, the security guard put a three round burst through the top of its exposed brain. A strange hiccuping sound left the devil as it staggered to one side and fell onto its side. The last of the beast's unnatural life left it in a violent, spasming frenzy.

A moment of quiet followed the devil's death. A moment where the only sounds that Sarah could make out were those of harsh breathing and frantic heartbeats - her own chief among them. A moment where the only smells were the reek of blood and the stench of terror. A single moment that stretched into another and another before someone finally dared speak.

It was Danny.

"Oh...fuck."

Sarah heard the animal hissing and grunting before she saw the shadows painted in the marshal's flashlight. They were of long, sleek and sinewy shapes. Beasts with dark eyes and long claws. Creatures that moved with deadly grace and astounding speed. The red devils rounded the corner in a black tide of lashing tongues and gnashing fangs, a dozen strong at least.

"This isn't a tunnel," Sarah muttered as Drake's hand tightened on her arm. "It's a _nest." _

"_RUN!" _Danny roared.

They poured down onto the half-finished tracks below where the space was wider and there was more room to maneuver. Sarah could almost sense the devils' excitement as they gave pursuit. Their cries and squeals sounding almost gleeful, mocking their prey as they foolishly tried to flee. Gravel crunched unevenly beneath Sarah's feet and she would have fallen if not for Drake's tight grip, hauling her along each time she stumbled.

_One stumble and you'll end up like Scaggs, _Sarah reminded herself as they clambered through the subway tunnel. As they ran she lost track of the others. She lost track of herself - her burning lungs, aching legs and sweaty palms reduced to the vaguest sensation in the back of her mind. All the girl could think about was the Ranger's twitching legs and faceless corpse. _One stumble and that'll be you, Sarah. _

Sarah risked a glance back as they charged blindly up the tracks into deeper shadows. The chase had whipped the red devils into a frenzy. They snapped and clawed at each other to reach the head of the pack. Their tongues dancing crazily through the air and once again they reminded her of snakes. She had read once that snakes used their tongues to smell - maybe the red devils were no different. Maybe they could smell her fear and that enticed them all the more.

The beasts scuttled across the ceiling or along the walls, their talons sinking into the concrete as if it were warm butter and propelling them faster than Sarah's tired legs could hope to carry her. She looked to her left and saw Hargreaves' grimace as one of the devil's scurried across the wall, lashing out with its tongue to tear open his sleeve. Harry spun and loosed another burst from Scaggs' rifle the shattered the beast's monstrous features. It flopped limply to the ground, its siblings climbing over its body without losing stride.

"Look out!" Mick hollered training his shotgun on the ceiling.

Sarah looked up, cringing as droplets of warm saliva spattered the shoulder of her lab coat like poison raindrops. She had just enough time in that glimpse to lock eyes with the devil's empty sockets, see its slick pink tongue lolling out of its mouth before a spray of buckshot wrenched the screaming beast from its roost. It hit the ground with a wolfish yelp, feebly trying to pull itself across the tracks, its lower spine turned to powder by the twelve gauge blast.

Drake pulled Sarah along and she did her best to keep pace with the convict. She felt like a lemming as he led the way through the darkness. She realized they could have all been stampeding towards the edge of a cliff for all anyone seemed to care. _Not that that would be such a bad end...given the alternative. _

Suddenly the girl found her arms pinwheeling as Drake skidded to a stop. Clarke and Harry crashed into them from behind, nearly sending them all down in a ball of tangled limbs. Just as she found her balance once more Drake jerked her sharply to the left. "This way!"

They climbed up onto the walkway lining the tracks and Sarah found herself facing a door. Danny's light swept across it a moment later, illuminating the words **MAINTENANCE AREA - AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. **Drake tried the knob but the door stubbornly held its ground.

"Fuck!" He shouted as bloodthirsty growls and screams were funneled their way. "It's locked!"

"Get outta the way!" Mick spat, pushing his way to the front, pumping the shotgun's slide.

"What are you doing?" Tommy asked, Briggs' flashlight shining on his pale skin, reflected in his wild eyes.

"Making a fucking key," Mick answered then pulled the trigger. The doorknob exploded off the frame. The old detective drove his shoulder into the door and it gave way, allowing the tide of humanity to pour inside.

The so-called "maintenance area" was actually more of a maintenance lounge and, like the rest of the subway, it too appeared to be only partially complete. A heavily stained and marked wooden table stood in the middle of the room that was just large enough for the group of survivors to occupy without being crammed shoulder to shoulder. Empty and half-empty lunch boxes stood open on the table, complete with a thermos of coffee that had been spilled so long a fuzzy film had started to form over the brown puddle. Chairs ringed the table and a pair of vending machines stood guard on either side of the door. Someone flipped a switch and a single bulb flared to life, revealing another door on the far side of the lounge where a rack containing hardhats and reflective vests stood.

Sarah took this all in with a single, sweeping glance before panicked shouts and calls for aid drew her glance back to the door her troupe had just piled through.

Danny and Harry had their weight pressed up against the door, their boots leaving tracks through the dust on the floor as they struggled and strained to slam it shut again. One of the red devils had wedged itself into the narrow opening though, its clawed hands prying the gap wider as it stuck its head into the room and unleash a splintering scream. The creature's tongue slapped the air like a whip, trying frantically to strike at the men who stood between it and its next meal.

"Mick!" Danny cried, his voice tight with desperation and face slick with sweat.

The detective's leathery face was grim as he chambered another round into his shotgun and pressed the bore against the devil's ugly visage. He grunted as he pulled the trigger and grimaced as dark blood sprayed the sides of the doorway and the grimy floor. The beast fell away and with a final roar of determination Danny and Harry threw the door shut.

Combined, the two men must have weighed an easy four-hundred pounds but that didn't deter the creatures outside. The door bucked and trembled even under the weight of the marshal and the Umbrella guard. Danny grit his teeth and Hargreaves swore as they fought to keep the door closed. Gilson shoved Tommy out of the way and wrapped his paws around the soda machine on the left side of the doorway.

"Get clear!" He yelled before ripping the machine out of the wall and hurling it in front of the door as the two men jumped back. He hurried around to the other side and gave the same treatment to the candy machine there, piling it on top of the pop dispenser. Even though he had thrown the two vending machines around like they were toys the big man stumbled back, hands on his knees, sucking down breath like a drowning man getting his first taste of air.

Outside the red devils threw themselves against the door. It banged and hammered against the vending machine blockade with a vengeful fury but the creatures couldn't build enough strength or momentum to force their way inside. Still, Sarah noticed everyone backed a healthy distance away, eyeing the entrance with wary eyes as they gasped for breath and fought to keep their food in their stomachs.

"I'm not taking any chances," Danny grunted, slinging his assault rifle across his neck. "Let's stack that table and chairs in front of the doorway."

They did so. Danny and Gilson sliding the table into position in front of the vending machine blockade while Homer and Clarke stacked chairs on top of the barricade - save for one that Marty set aside for Michelle to sit in. She nodded her gratitude to her partner as he eased her down into the seat and grimaced as she reached down into her boot to rub at what must have been a painfully swollen ankle.

Mick watched the men work with an anxious gaze on the door as he pulled his last two shells out of his coat pocket and thumbed them into the breach of the shotgun. When they were done assembling their fortifications Briggs loosed a roar and kicked a waste basket in the corner across the room. It hit the far wall with a thunderous _bang _and tottered onto its side spilling a few crumpled pieces of paper onto the floor.

"_Goddamnit!" _The lieutenant wailed, his voice raw and cut by the sharp edges of loss. "Scaggs - I knew that man since _day one. _We went through fucking _boot _together. We went through hell week training together. He's gone! Him and Shivers and...and...my whole fucking _squad _is _gone!" _

"I told you," Tommy said, standing in the corner shaking his head. "I told you. They're going to get us. One by one. They're going to get us _all!_"

Hargreaves stomped up to the photographer, his face a thunderhead and slammed the other man up against the wall. "Put a cork in it, asshole. We start freaking out like you and then we will be well and truly _fucked._"

"What the fuck were those things?" Briggs demanded, eyeing Sarah with a look that was both haunted and crazed. When Sarah didn't respond fast enough for his liking, the lieutenant stepped to her and grabbed her lab coat by the labels pushing her painfully back against the counter where the microwave stood. "_What the fuck were those things?"_

Sarah flinched, afraid the man was about to hit her until Danny stepped in and grabbed his arm. He hurled the Ranger back a step and a half.

"Back off Briggs," he growled, dark and dangerous. "Touch her again and I'll break your fucking arm."

"The man's got a point, Danny," Gilson said, eyeing Sarah with a look that made her shiver. Again, she had the feeling she was about to be struck. "What the fuck are those things?" He nodded back to where the door continued to shake weakly. "You can't tell me those are people like those other things. You can't tell me those are sick fucking people!"

"I don't know what they are, okay?" Sarah spat back, tears running down her cheeks. She felt so weak. Weak and stupid and helpless. She didn't know anything. "Listen...I've had a lot of theories about this virus - whatever it is - since the first time I laid eyes on it but all I know is that it mutates the host's brain chemistry and it mutates it _hardcore. _

"Do you understand that? This isn't _just _a virus - it's a mutagen. It...it...can twist its host. It can _transform them. _ I _told _you there were worse things out there than just those...those...zombies. You said you ran into dogs that had been infected? Well, welcome to some of the other circus acts around this place!"

"Transforms them?" Michelle asked from her seat, an incredulous look on her pained features. "Sarah...are you saying those things out there _are _people that were infected? People that..._mutated?_"

"Bullshit," Briggs snapped. "_Bullshit! _What could do that?"

Sarah looked at the lieutenant, could feel the heat in his gaze, but couldn't bring herself to answer. He'd just think she was crazy. Hell, _she _was starting to think she was crazy. True, she had told Homer but she'd practically known Homes her whole life and, yes, Hargreaves and Tommy had been there too but Hargreaves was her guard dog and who gave half a shit what Tommy Chan thought? Sarah looked down. She blinked away some tears and wiped away more.

_Look at you, girl. Look at how pathetic you are. Why did Barnes ever take a gamble on you? You're too dumb to figure this thing out. You've got a pocket full of wild hypothesis' but no proof to back any of them up. Even if you had a fully functioning lab, a staff of genius researchers and a six months to work with RS you might not be able to figure it out. Who's going to back you when - _

"A biological weapon could do that," Homer answered and Sarah looked over at him with wide eyes. He glanced back at her and nodded. "Something man made. Raccoon Syndrome...what it does...what _we've seen it do..._it's too sophisticated to occur naturally. It has to be something someone engineered...someone who might not have known what they were dealing with."

Sarah saw Homer starring back at her and again he nodded. Her lower lip quivered, fresh tears forming in her eyes, choking the back of her throat but for the first time in a long time that was a good feeling. _Homes...thank you. _

"A biological weapon," Danny said as if sampling the thought. He turned his gaze to Sarah and nodded slowly. "A terrorist attack?"

"Maybe," Sarah shrugged. "There's another possibility though...a leak. Something developed locally that...got free for lack of a better word."

"Locally?" Marshal Clarke's look suggested that mermaids and fairy dust would have been a more believable concept. "No offense, doc, but you understand that Raccoon City is pretty small time right? This wouldn't exactly be a primo location for a secret military base or underground government facility."

"I'm not claiming to understand it either," Sarah sighed, "it's just another theory. At this point all I've _got _are theories. I've compared RS to a lot of different diseases - influenza, Marburg, AIDS - but I'm thinking the most accurate comparison at this point, based on everything we've all seen, is rabies."

"Rabies?" Briggs asked with a raised eyebrow. "Are you fucking kidding me? What's next, whopping cough?"

"Do you know the science, asshole?" Sarah sniped, glaring daggers at the Ranger. "If so, then whip out your degree in virology and microbiology and let's compare IQs. I'm telling you - rabies is the best comparison. Both effect the central nervous system. Both alter brain chemistry - both _mutate _it. Both lead to erratic and violent behaviour."

"You're saying we could be dealing with something engineered though," Danny said. "Something built a lab. Something _someone _intended to have this effect."

Sarah nodded solemnly. "At first, I thought maybe this was a Nobel Prize project run amuck. I thought it might be the side-effect of someone trying to develop the God Virus - a virus that could rearrange DNA, re-write cell structure. A virus - as ironic as it sounds - designed to wipe out eradicate disease, grow back limbs, eliminate paralysis. Maybe I was too altruistic in my thinking though."

Homer continued, picking up her train of thought as he always did when she got rolling. "The God Virus would be the holy grail of science...but weaponized rabies...that would be the holy grail of viral warfare. Think about it. Place a drop of this into an unfriendly population's water supply and a week later - maybe less - you have a completely destabilized population. You step in, clean up the mess, and conquer whatever's leftover."

"You could make hundreds of millions selling something like that on the Black Market," Sarah said. "Even more if you sold it to a government willing to pony up the cash for a little Apocalypse in a Jar."

"Jesus," Marty said, pacing, running hands through his short, damp black hair. "Jesus Christ. This just keeps getting better and better."

Another moment of silence descending. Another moment where everyone who shared it seemed fearful to take another breath, as if that action alone might shatter the peace that had fallen and plunge them all back into another frightful frenzy of chaos. Another moment where the only scents were those of fear and uncertainty.

Again, it was Danny Cobb who broke the quiet. "Rabies," he said and Sarah nodded. "Rabies," she answered.

"You know," Gilson said, face blank as he eyed Drake. "I heard something interesting about rabies once. Heard it on a medical show. Heard the doc say that you can vaccinate against rabies...but once someone who's got it starts showing symptoms...it's almost a guarantee that they're dead."

Sarah nodded slowly, not liking the way the marshal's eyes hovered unblinkingly on the convict. "More or less. Rabies is almost one hundred percent fatal once symptoms begin."

"Guess that's all the prognosis I need for you, bud," Gilson smiled, drawing his sidearm and stepping forward. He had the barrel pressed against Drake's forehead for less than a second before Sarah smacked his arm away.

"Are you crazy?" She drove both her palms into the big man's chest but Mike Gilson could have passed for the Hulk's younger brother. He didn't budge an inch. "I already told you. Drake is _my _patient. You want to get at him, you're going to have to go through _me _first."

"Whatever you say, doc," Gilson shrugged and cocked his handgun, pressing it between her breasts.

Gilson squeezed the trigger but his shot went wild, punching through the back wall as Danny grabbed hold of his arm grappling with the man as the two fought for control of the pistol. Danny butted his head up into Gilson's nose, sending a red rush coursing from the deputy's nostrils. He twisted the bigger man's wrist to the outside and hammered his fist into Gilson's chin once, twice - the third blow finally sending the giant deputy to the ground. Stomping on Gilson's wrist, Danny twisted the pistol from his grip as he glared down at his subordinate, face red and neck veins swollen with outrage.

"You finished?" Danny barked. "Or do I need to finish you?"

"Looks like we're all finished, Boss," Gilson spat out a mouthful of blood as Danny let up on his wrist, letting the big man get back to his feet. "So long as you let your girlfriend and her ticking time bomb run around. He's _bit, _Danny! A couple of hours and he's going to turn and try and kill _us! _You're putting all our lives at risk by protecting him.

"He's bit. He's infected - with this weaponized rabies or whatever the fuck it is. That's fine, doc, but that means you need to let us do what's necessary. You know what you do with a rabid dog? You shoot it. You put it out of it's misery."

"Your concern is touching, Mike," Drake snarled, "but in case you hadn't noticed I'm _not _showing any symptoms yet. I'm fine."

"Yeah? For how much longer? How long before you come after one of _us? _Before you infect one of _us?" _Gilson stepped closer until he was nose to nose with Drake. "You were a killer before; you're still a killer now. We should have put a bullet in you back when we had you locked up in that cell. Saved ourselves a lot of trouble."

"Fuck off, deputy," Danny grunted, pressing the man's pistol against his chest and marching Gilson back a couple steps. "Get your shit secure. We need you if we're going to get out of here with our skins in one piece." He turned to Clarke. "How far are we from the precinct?"

_He was going to shoot me._ Sarah stared at Gilson as the hulking marshal stuffed his pistol back into its holster but not without glowering at Danny with murder in his eyes first. _He would have shot me...just to get at Drake. _

"Not far," Clarke shook his head. "If we are where I think we are...then we're less than a block from the station."

"Better hope that door leads to an access tunnel," Mick grunted, gesturing towards the door against the far wall.

"Probably a back way in for the workers," Clarke replied. "Maintenance shaft installed to get them between the different stations they were installing."

"Let's get the hell out of here then," Briggs grunted. He threw the door open and shined his light down the corridor. It stretched out for twenty feet or so, ending at a tall staircase that led up towards a door marked **SURFACE ENTRANCE/EXIT.**

Briggs led the way with Clarke and Mick close behind. Hargreaves and Homer nudged a griping Tommy Chan along after them. Gilson made a move to follow but Danny caught hold of the front of his vest and pinned him against the wall first. He leaned in and said something to the burly deputy but Sarah was too far away to make out any of it.

Whatever words passed between the two men, Sarah doubted any of them were positive. Gilson turned a frightening shade of red and brushed off Danny's hands as if they were scalding. He disappeared into the darkness of the chamber and the look Danny gave him as he went could have cut a hole through steel.

"Come on," he growled, turning back as if sensing the eyes on him. "If you want to live then get your asses in motion." With that he vanished into the corridor as well.

"That's right," Sheesh grunted, pulling Michelle back to her feet and sliding her arm across his shoulders. "One big happy family again."

Wiping the sweat and tears from her face, Sarah started after the others but stopped when she felt Drake's fingers curl around her wrist.

"Hey, doc, thanks for saving my ass back there." Drake managed the ghost of a smile. "It's not every day someone almost takes a bullet for me."

"Yeah," Sheesh muttered as he and Michelle hobbled past, "normally they take a bullet _from _him."

Sarah watched them go, shaking her head. She turned back to Drake and forced a small grin of her own.

"It was nothing," she said. "Maybe I take my Hippocratic oath a little too seriously. Let's just say you owe me one, all right?"

"Here's hoping you won't need me to cash in on that favor, doc."

He let go of her wrist, squeezed her shoulder and slipped out after the others. Sarah starred after him, wondering if Drake Lincoln could really be the cold-blooded murderer Danny and his team seemed to insist he was.

_Not that it matters, _she reminded herself. _In an hour or two he'll be symptomatic and an hour or two after that...he'll be dead. Odds are pretty good we all will be. _

Sarah jumped as the crashing and banging on the door to the subway tracks began anew. The chairs tumbled down as the vending machines quaked. The red devils on the other side finding fresh zeal as they assaulted the barricade. Sarah watched the mini-poltergeist for another second before she shook herself and took off after Drake.

"Here's hoping."

**Author's Note: **Once again I have to ask you to forgive my protracted absence. Please keep reading and keep your eyes peeled for another update soon (I hope). As always your feedback is encouraged and appreciated so please leave a review. Stay tuned.


	21. Siren's Song

**Chapter Twenty: Siren's Song**

Here goes nothing.

_ Well, that wasn't exactly correct Drake decided as he stood staring blankly at his front door. He'd been rooted in place for the better part of twenty minutes now, long enough to feel safe in his assumption that the hallway fluorescents were giving him a nasty tan. _More like, here goes everything.

_Drake closed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath as he fished around in his pocket. He closed his hand around the small square object there then quickly let go when he realized how sweaty his palm was. When he opened his eyes again the door was still standing there, the eyehole seeming to stare back at him, daring him to make a move. _

Would that I could, bud.

_ All he had to do was take a step forward, place his hand on the knob, give it a spin and step inside. That was it. That was all. For the last twenty minutes and counting though, Drake Lincoln hadn't been able to bring himself to do that. _

_ It was like someone had snipped the telephone wire in his brain. Messages were getting sent but not received. His feet stayed planted. His hands stayed glued at his side. Drake knew what he was dealing with almost instantly. He'd never experienced it before personally but he'd seen it happen to other men more than once. _

Yeah, except there were usually bullets whizzing past their heads or bombs going off at their backs. _He flipped the square around in his pocket. _What's your excuse, pal?

_Drake smiled and if he hadn't been so nervous he might have even managed a laugh at his own expense. There were some folks out there, Drake knew, who would have thought of him as a regular Billy Badass. After all, he was the same guy who'd hiked through deserts where every patch of sand could have concealed a scorpion, camel spider or anti-personnel mine. He'd spent days hiding out in the Arctic waste, watching the entrance to a bunker until his eyelashes turned to icicles. He was the same guy who'd slogged through the worst swamps in the world, getting eaten alive by mosquitoes and all manner of creepy crawlies while the enemy could have been bearing down on him with all manner of automatic weapons. _

_ Now, looking back, none of that seemed like it had been a really big deal. Just another day at the office. Could he walk through his front door though? Hell no. Bring on the scorpions and swamps and machete-totting guerillas. _

Yep. Billy Badass. That's me. _Drake shook his head, twirled the square between his fingertips. _Christ. If only the guys could see me now. Afraid to walk into my own apartment.

_Well, Drake supposed the guys _couldn't _see him after all. That was one of the drawbacks to being dead. _He _wasn't dead though. He was still here and by some bizarre twist of fate he'd been handed an opportunity that he never could have dreamed of back when he was worried about stepping on camel spiders or booby-traps. An opportunity to do something real. Something that _mattered.

Not if you don't step through the goddamn door already. Come on, buddy. Sack up or shut up.

_"Right," Drake blew out a heavy breath and pulled his hand out of his pocket to cross himself twice for good measure. He'd never been a religious man but - with what he was planning - Drake figured it couldn't hurt. He turned the knob, stepped inside and went down in a heap as someone buried a baseball bat in his gut. _

_ He fell to his knees fighting to draw in oxygen that was suddenly absent. Drake felt like an astronaut who'd had his helmet torn off in the middle of a spacewalk. Behind him he heard someone slam the door, flip the bolt and secure the chain. _

_ Gasping and wheezing, Drake staggered to his feet with his arms wrapped around his belly. Before he could turn the bat clipped him across the back of one knee, then the other. Drake collapsed to the hardwood and then onto his face when his unseen assailant butt-ended him in the kidney. _

_ Drake lay with his face pressed to the floor, his arms curled tight around his stomach and his knees throbbing to the frantic beat of his heart. He lay there sucking in tiny, desperate breaths. His mind was too overwhelmed by the pain setting his body on fire to form a cohesive thought beyond the simple, primal understanding that he may have just walked into the last few moments of his life. _

_ The agony in his gut fading to a dull ache, Drake found that breathing had become a little easier. He pressed his hands to the ground and found strength enough to lift his upper body up off the floor. The bat clapped him sharply across the shoulders though and drove him back into place. _

_ Soft, smooth clicking noises sounded as a pair of shoes came into view. Black leather and polished to an almost mirror shine. Drake followed them up to an expensive looking pair of black slacks, a belt with a large gold buckle, a brown trench coat and a meaty pair of hands. _

_ One of those thick paws gripped the handle of an aluminum baseball bat. The other was ringed by a gold and silver charm bracelet. Drake looked further up to a gargoyle's face with a deep scar running underneath one eye as hard and cold as black ice. _

_ "You should have taken Mister McShay's offer," Charms told him before bringing the bat down across his face. _

_ There was a harsh _crack_ as he felt his nose give way. Blood spattered the floor and filled his mouth. He spat out a mouthful of it as his head was wrenched to one side. His skull bounced off the floor, his vision blurred and shook before snapping painfully back into focus. _

_ Drake found himself looking into the apartment's kitchenette but the space that Jessica normally kept meticulously neat now looked more like the Hulk's punching bag. Cabinet doors were cracked and hanging off their hinges. The chairs at the counter had been overturned and shattered. Ceramic and glass fragments littered the ground like shrapnel on a battlefield, marking the places where dishes had tumbled from the cabinets overhead. The ratty old washcloth which normally hung securely around the oven's door handle now dangled limply from Jessica's pale fingers. _

Jess? No...

_Drake closed his eyes, squeezed them until they hurt. Charms must have really socked him one good. He must have been seeing things. That wasn't Jessica he'd been looking at. Just his eyes playing tricks. His head felt packed with cotton, stuffed with spiderwebs. He shook himself to clear them away. _

Please, just let it be that. _Slowly, Drake opened his eyes. _

_ Jessica hadn't gone anywhere. She still lay among the wreckage of the kitchen she'd looked after with the discipline of a drill sergeant since moving in. Her hair formed a dark halo around a face that wasn't just pale but grey. So grey that it made her blue lips stand out even more. _

_ Wrapped around her neck was a length of electrical cord, tied so tight it had bitten through her skin to draw a trickle of blood. That blood had formed a small pool on the hardwood next to another pair of polished loafers. Drake didn't have to look any higher to know their owner was a burly bald guy with a welt discoloring his neck. _

_ "You made me choke," Cue Ball said and Drake could tell by the man's tone that he was grinning. "I figured your girlfriend deserved the same treatment." _

Jessica...no.

_No tricks. No deception. That was Jessica, that was his love, laying there cold and rotting on the floor of their home. Drake had seen horror and Hell - survived heavy doses of both in his life - but never before had he felt so lost, so _trapped_, in a living nightmare as he did now. _

Jessica's dead_. It was a simple statement - a simple thought - but the overwhelming finality of those words made it all but impossible to process. _

Jessica's dead._ Her laughter, light and quick, would never again tickle his ears when he tickled her feet. He would never again feel the soft rhythm of her fingers dancing across the back of his neck as they lay together in bed. He would never again wake to the sound of her humming, so loud it was laughable, to herself in the shower as she got ready for work each morning. _

Jessica's dead. _Never again would he see the light in her face when she smiled. Never again would he feel the warmth of her arms as she wrapped them around his waist when he walked through the door. Her light, her warmth...were gone. Forever. _

She's gone, _Drake knew, _because of me.

_Fredrick McShay had ordered her death, Charms and Cue Ball had carried out the killing but if they were the reaction then Drake himself had been the catalyst. Jessica was dead because of what he'd done, who'd he'd been. Who he _was.

_"She never knew," Drake sobbed, tears burning his eyes like acid, "she never knew."_

_ He hadn't spoken a word to Jess about his run-in with McShay and his goons. He hadn't said anything about the offer McShay made, the threatens he had issued, the warning he had tried to give. How could he without raising questions he wasn't sure he could answer? Jessica knew him only as Drake Lincoln: dockhand, working stiff, blue collar Joe. _

_ She never knew...because he had never told her the truth. At least not about himself, about what he had done before they met. Drake had _tried _to tell her. Early on in their relationship he had decided she needed to know who he really was but, in love, the mind always seemed to know things the heart would rather remain ignorant of. _

_ She needed to know who he really was but Drake had been so afraid that if she _did _know - about the deserts and swamps and bloodstained snow - then she would have left him. So he'd selfishly kept his secrets boxed up and buried beneath layers of lies. _

_ In the end, it seemed, his plan had worked. Jessica hadn't left him. Instead, she'd been taken away. _

_ "She never knew!" Drake's cry was a ragged wail of biting loss. Tears burned down his face as some wicked shade thrust a barbed knife into the core of his heart. He gazed at Jessica's corpse and felt that same shade carving away the last piece of his soul - stripping away that tattered, bloody old thing. _

_ "Guess she never will now, either," Cue Ball said. He stomped forward and drove the toe of his finely polished shoe into Drake's belly. _

_ He rolled onto his back. The pain in his body a dull ache compared to the hot agony gripping his heart. Cue Ball and Charms stood over him now. The former looking down at him with his ape-like face twisted in disgust. Charms wore the hint of a grin as he lifted the bat above his head. Drake spat out another mouthful of blood. _

_ "There's something...you should...know," he wheezed. _

_ "What's that?" Charms sounded amused. _

_ "Before this...is over..." He said, " you're both...going to die...very badly." _

_ Cue chuckled. Charms laughed. _

_ "It's already over," he said and brought the bat down. _

"OUCH!" A sharp pain tore up Drake's leg, wrenching him from his dark daydream. He looked down to see Sarah had part of his jumpsuit - and a healthy portion of his skin - twisted between her thumb and forefinger. She let go at his exclamation but flashed him a look that was a little too satisfied for his liking. "What was that for?"

"I was asking about your arm but you stopped answering my questions. It was more than a little annoying to be honest," Sarah said as she finished changing his bandage, wrapping the cotton tight around his forearm. She met his eyes and her expression softened. "Sorry. You got this faraway, tripped-out look and...I was just checking, you know?"

Drake nodded. He knew.

_Just checking to make sure I'm still all here. Just checking to make sure I'm still responsive. Just checking to make sure I'm not about to get up and try to sink my teeth into someone's neck. Yeah, I know. _

"Sorry about that," Drake said. "I just got lost in thought for a second there. What was your question?"

"How are you feeling?"

"Should have guessed," he smiled. "Fine and dandy. All things considered."

Fine and dandy - on the outside at least. Internally, Drake's mind was caught in a violent squall of gnashing terror and crushing regret. It was only through a Herculean display of self-discipline that he was able to restrain himself from curling up in the fetal position and crumbling into a gibbering mess. Drake could feel the icy claws of panic crawling along his spine with every breath he took. Reminding himself that each one could be the last he took.

In a few hours - maybe less - he would grow sick, feverish and mad. He would fall into a coma and when he woke he wouldn't be Drake Lincoln anymore. He would be some_thing _else - a walking, rotting corpse that would try and kill whoever was closest without thought or hesitation. He would die as man and rise as a monster.

_That's if they let me wake up from that coma, of course. _

Drake tilted his head, looking over to where Mike Gilson lounged against the far wall with his arms crossed. He wasn't surprised to find the hulking deputy already staring at him. Gilson's face was as dark as the night outside and as hard as the concrete walls which surrounded them now - save for his eyes. Drake could almost see the flames dancing behind them, Gilson's pupils smoldering like two pieces of molten rock.

Drake knew if he was interested in preserving his life even another second then he needed to tread carefully around that man. Gilson had been willing to kill Sarah - and had very nearly succeeded as well - in order to get to him. For whatever reason, Gilson had decided Drake was the cause of all the world's ills at the moment and the only way to fix that problem was to remove him from it.

_He blames me for what happened to Tucker. _Drake could tell that much from a cursory glance at the man. It was illogical - Drake had been trying to _warn _the other deputy - but logic no longer applied to the way someone like Mike Gilson thought.

He was _cracking. _That's what they had called it back in Drake's other life. He had seen it happen to other men countless times before. Men who had seen and experienced much less in their entire lives than Gilson had during his one horrifying night in Raccoon.

_In fact, it's pretty remarkable he hasn't tried anything more...drastic...than he already has. _

"You're sure?" Sarah asked, drawing his attention again. "You don't have any pain? Itching? Nausea? No nothing?"

"I'm sure." Drake nodded. "My arm doesn't even hurt that much anymore, however, my butt _is_ getting a little sore." He pointed between his legs to the stack of crates doubling as sofa.

Michelle's ankle was swollen worse than she'd been letting on. Clarke insisted they were only a block from the station but, despite her protests to the contrary, the woman wouldn't have made it another _foot_ without a rest. The group had ducked into a warehouse which, blessedly, had been unlocked.

Shelves lined the ground floor stacked with girders, pipes, poles and sheet metal of every shape and size. Huge machines whose purpose Drake couldn't even begin to guess at, occupied the spaces in between, humming softly. At the far end of the room a tall staircase led up to what must have been the foreman's office. A wall of windows overlooking the production floor below.

Danny had Marty and Hargreaves sweeping the lower level with Lieutenant Shitbird while the two detectives cleared the upstairs. The marshal himself had scrounged up a roll of duct tape - _and _a first-aid kit - from somewhere and knelt nearby, helping Homer tape up Michelle's ankle.

The woman was sweaty and pale. Drake watched her and saw the way the cords in her neck tightened as she clenched her jaw to keep from crying out each time Danny cinched the tape tighter around her foot.

_Christ, she actually looks worse than me. _Drake felt a pang of guilt for finding that reassuring.

"Your eyes look normal," Sarah told him as she seized his face and pried one of his eyelids wider. Then again, it sounded more like the girl was talking to herself. _Girl genius, _Drake reminded himself. It was easy to forget. _Doctor _Sarah Waxer looked like she should have been starting her freshman year. "Still no fever either."

Drake batted her hand away from his forehead. "Try not to sound too disappointed, would you?" He gave her a rueful smile.

She swatted at the hand he'd swatted hers with and pressed her fingers up under his jaw, rubbing down his neck. "Your glands aren't swollen either," she shook her head. "I'm sorry. I'm not disappointed. It's just I'm...you know what? I don't know _what _I am. This is just all really..._unusual._"

"I'll take that to mean I'm unique." Drake grinned. "Thanks for the compliment, doc."

"Glad to see this hasn't dampened your spirits at least."

Drake shrugged. "Better laughing than crying right?"

Sarah grunted and looked away. When she turned back she had trouble meeting his eye and was chewing the inside of her cheek with such gusto it looked like there was a snake crawling around in her mouth. The girl - girl _genius _- had one one hand locked in a white-knuckled death-grip around the other.

Drake smiled. She might be a prodigy with an IQ the size of a jetliner but there were some things you just couldn't learn in a book. The girl genius wore her every anxiety as plainly as she wore her lab coat. There was something oddly...charming about her awkwardness.

"You want to ask me a question," Drake said for her, "but you're afraid how I'll react. Go on. You've already saved my ass twice since we met. The least I owe you is a little honesty."

_Something I couldn't even give to the woman I loved the most. _

That thought bit deep, cutting him to his core. Drake wasn't afraid of dying - why should he be? He had died the same day Fatal Freddy had Jessica murdered. He only regretted that now he would never be able to do anything about it. Years of planning and bloodshed...all for nothing now.

_I was so close. _He was but Fate was cruel and had conspired against him.

"I was just wondering," Sarah began slowly, clearly embarrassed about whatever it was she wanted to know. "No one's told me what it is you did to wind up wearing those." She nodded to the lone handcuff still dangling around his wrist. "You never mentioned it either - though I guess we've all had bigger problems to deal with. It's just...Danny says you're a killer and -"

"He _is _a killer." Drake looked up and there was Danny, sauntering over with his M4 cradled across his chest and a cold look in his eyes. "The worst kind of killer too. The kind who kills for money."

"Nice to see you too, Danny," Drake smiled. "Didn't anyone ever tell you it's _rude _to eavesdrop?"

The marshal grunted.

"So you're a...hitman?" Sarah asked and Drake was surprised to find she wasn't regarding him with judgement or fear or revulsion. She looked _curious. _She wasn't just looking at him anymore, she was _studying _him now.

_ Trying to figure me out, doc? Wondering what makes me tick, is that it?_

"Something like that," Drake replied, looking away. "Danny makes it sound a lot more simple than it is." He gave the marshal one of the grins he knew irritated him so profoundly. "That's why you've never been that interesting, Danny. Everything's so black and white to you."

Another grunt. "You got paid to kill people, Drake. You got paid by a _mobster_ to kill people. What's more black and white than that."

"There's a certain honesty to it. What I did for Romeo Capelli is probably the most honest thing I've ever done in my life."

"Murder for hire is murder for hire." Danny spat. "What you've done has _always _been murder, Drake, even back when you were killing for -" Danny trailed off, eyeing Sarah warily as if only just noticing that she was still standing there.

Drake sighed, shaking his head. Somewhere inside of him he actually _liked _Danny Cobb but the man's sense of propriety could be infuriating at times. Not to mention entirely out of place given their current situation.

"When I was killing for the government." Drake finished Danny's sentence for him, turning to Sarah. "That's what he was thinking of saying anyway. He _didn't _say that because - in addition to, I think, being slightly embarrassed by just how much he knows about me - Danny's not sure how much he wants _you _to know about me.

"I don't really think that should be much of a concern for you, bud," he said, turning back to Danny. "Considering I'm going to be dead sooner than later it's not going to matter much what she knows, now is it?"

"You were military?"Sarah asked and Drake nodded.

"Delta Force. I was part of a group that mostly handled black ops cleaning gigs. Wet work."

The girl raised an eyebrow. "In English, please?"

"I was someone who eliminated high priority targets."

"You were an _assassin,_" Danny seethed.

"We preferred the term _soldier_ but fair enough," Drake shrugged. "I specialized in comms and tech but...yeah, we ran assassination missions. Despots, warlords, arms runners, terrorism financiers - we took out a wide variety of scumbags."

It was the truth but not all of it. Drake wasn't quite as naive as he let on. He knew not every one of his targets had been a demon made flesh. Many had simply found themselves on the wrong side when political lines were drawn. They had backed the wrong players; supported the wrong causes. Such things happened when people saw only in black and white.

"You think working for Capelli was more honest than what you did when you were in Delta?" Danny snorted. "At least back then you were killing people who's crimes were even worse than yours. What you did for the mob was -"

"Justice," Drake snarled. He liked Danny but the man sure knew when to push him at the wrong time. He was going to be dead before dawn more likely than not. Wasn't that _enough _for him? "It was _justice, _Danny. In its purest form."

"Justice?" Danny hissed. "Is that what you tell yourself so you can sleep at night? You're responsible for _dozens _of murders, Drake. People who -"

"People who what?" Drake laughed wondering if Danny would actually try to vindicate any of the people he'd put in the ground. "Name one of my _'victims'_, Danny. Go ahead."

"Luka Tonzi," Danny said without hesitation. Drake wasn't surprised. He knew Danny and Danny knew him. The marshal would have read over the list of the dead until it was all but branded on his brain.

"Drug dealer," Drake replied without missing a beat. Without blinking. "Wife-beater."

"Johnathan Shorfer."

"Pimp."

"Gregory Greene."

"_Drug dealing _pimp."

"Carl Summers." Danny was starting to turn a dark shade of red. "He had a wife and two kids."

"Arms dealer," Drake countered. He could feel the vein in the side of his head starting to throb angrily. "He had a trunk full of C4 for sale when I shot him."

"Mary Burke." The muscles in Danny's neck were bunched tight, looking ready to burst through the surface of his skin.

"_Mary Burke?" _ Her name made Drake laugh. "She was a pimp too...one who sold _children _into slavery overseas. She was one of the biggest contributors to Fredrick McShay's bank account thanks to _years _selling off kids to work in sex clubs across Europe."

Drake pushed himself off the stack of wooden boxes so that he stood nose-to-nose with Danny Cobb. "You knew all of this already though. You know who my _victims _were and just how many victims _they _left behind.

"There aren't any nuns or saints on my list. Just gangsters, pimps and other pieces of garbage. I did the world a service by taking them out and _that's _what you really hate about me. _That's _why you want to get inside my head so badly."

"You don't know what you're -"

"Don't I?" Drake shook his head. "You hate me because I was able to do something you have never been able to - no matter how badly you wanted to. I saw something wrong and made it _right._ No warrants, no Miranda rights, no politics and no _bullshit. _I did what needed to be done when it needed to be done." He smiled a knifing grin. "How's that for black and white, Danny?"

The marshal opened his mouth to say more but Drake was done listening. He strode away, leaving Danny and Sarah to gape after him. He looked down to the bandage wrapped around his arm and shook his head. Let them think whatever they wanted. He wasn't about to waste the rest of his now exceptionally finite life locked in a circular debate with Commander Danny Cobb.

_You told me I was going to spend the rest of my life rotting in prison. _Drake tore his eyes away from the bandage and looked over to where Mick and Clarke came hurrying down the staircase. _Looks like I got the death penalty after all. You should be thankful, Danny. The thing that bit me just saved the taxpayers the trouble of a trial._

"Find anything?" Drake asked and the two cops froze halfway to the ground. They looked surprised to have been addressed by a man still wearing handcuffs.

"Not a lot," Mick replied before reaching into his jacket pocket and taking out a box of .44 cartridges, "but it's safe to say our friend the foreman might have had some trust issues when it came to his employees. Found these in his desk drawer." The old detective tucked his shotgun under his arm as he went about reloading his revolver.

"Found these too," Clarke added holding up a pack of cigarettes and a gold lighter. He removed one of the smokes and lit up. Mick gave him an odd look as they reached the bottom of the stairs.

"I thought you quit?"

"Yeah. I _did _quit. Past tense."

"_Hey! _Hey guys!" Sheesh came barreling around one of the banks of shelves, skidding to a halt. His face was pale; eyes wild. "You need to see this."

_You _need _to see this, he said. Not you _want _to see this._

"Show me," Danny said, already moving to follow his deputy.

Sheesh led them towards the center of the warehouse before darting behind one of the numerous rows of towering shelves. Drake stepped around the corner with the others to where Briggs and Hargreaves stood across from each other, staring at the mess covering the cold concrete floor.

"We smelled them before we saw them," Sheesh said, swallowing thickly.

Drake counted eight or nine bodies - _at least. _It was difficult to tell how many corpses there were exactly. Each man lay in pieces and each man's pieces lay scattered across the ground in a confused, chaotic ring of torn, bloody flesh. Arms, legs and heads had been strewn across the floor like the pieces to a jigsaw puzzle the Devil had grown bored with.

_Holy shit..._

"Zombies didn't do this," Drake said as he studied the hideous human tapestry.

These men hadn't just been killed. They had been _savaged. _

He noticed bite marks on their bodies but there were other wounds that had been made by...something else. Something that had carved cleanly through flesh and bone. Something that had separated heads from spines with little trouble. Something that had torn these guys, literally, limb from limb.

_Something like a machete...or a massive set of claws. _

Drake had thought he'd seen all of Death's many faces during the Dark Delta Days. He'd watched as friends and foes alike were shredded and cut down in the swamps, the deserts, the frigid snow...but even his stomach turned into a churning, clenching pit of agony at the sight of what was before him now. Never before had he witnessed _anything_ with this level of animalistic brutality.

_And I thought I had been dealing with monsters before..._

The spark of a flashbulb and rapid-fire _click-click-click _of a shutter interrupted his thinking. Tommy Chan leaned over his shoulder, his finger doing a tap-dance on the shutter button. Just another vulture come to feast on the carrion on the floor. Drake grimaced with disgust and shoved the smaller man back a step.

"How about a little respect for the dead, asshole?" Clarke spat from where he stood behind the photographer.

"No," Sarah said slowly, stepping forward. Her words were soft, her eyes transfixed on the carnage. "No. Let him document it."

"Doc?" Hargreaves asked with his eyebrows climbing towards his hairline. "You sure you're feeling all right."

"I'm about ten states over from _all right..._but I was thinking. If - _when _- we make it out of here, even if we tell everyone all the things we've seen they still might not believe us. Hell, I'm not sure _I _even believe _half _of the stuff we've seen.

"The world knows the virus is dangerous but they don't know _how _dangerous. They haven't seen the mutations. They haven't seen the pure _horror _of it." Sarah brushed her hair out of her eyes, the action seeming to allow her to finally tear her gaze away from the human ruins on the floor. "Barnes told me the CDC, WHO and Umbrella are all part of a committee trying to decide how to deal with this mess...but they don't have the right information. All they've seen are statements and reports - _words. _Words won't tell them what's really happened here. Words can't capture the _insanity_ that's taken over this city."

Slowly, Sarah turned to face Tommy. Slowly, she nodded. "Pictures can. Document it, Tommy."

Seeming more shocked than anyone that Sarah had taken his side, Tommy nodded and set to work, his camera continuing its familiar dialogue of flashes and clicks. Drake looked over at Sarah as the photographer went about his grisly business. Even though the girl had given Tommy the go-ahead, he saw she still looked ready to be sick each time the flash flared and the shutter _clicked._

"Who were these guys?" Gilson grumbled, surveying the wreckage of broken bodies with dark eyes.

"I think I can answer that," Hargreaves replied. He slid his toe under the hips of one body that was short a head and a leg. He rolled the corpse over onto its stomach.

The cadaver was decked out in military gear: combat boots, kneepads, tactical vest. A symbol was stitched onto the back of that vest in bold colored thread. A pair of swords criss-crossed an unmistakable hexagonal shield of red and white. A shield recognized around the world as the logo of the Umbrella Corporation.

"Here's your UBCS, doc." Hargreaves grunted. "I thought you said they weren't going to be entering the city?" He glanced back down at the red mess streaking the floor and grunted more sourly. "Doesn't look like they'd be much help in getting us out of here anyway though."

"That's what Barnes told me," Sarah said absently, eyes on the dead, brow furrowed in thought. "They must have been given the all clear to go in and search for survivors. That might mean the barriers outside the city are secure again."

"Excuse me," Drake held one hand aloft as if he were a student who didn't quite understand the homework he'd just been assigned. "I hope none of you mind if I ask a question. UBCS? These were the guys you mentioned back at the bus depot?"

Hargreaves nodded. "Umbrella Bio-hazard Countermeasures Service. Mercs. They run containment and quarantine ops when there's a biological threat."

"These guys friends of yours?"

"I already told you," Hargreaves shook his head, "me and these guys play for the same team but we don't share a clubhouse. I'm simple security. The UBCS are the special forces of the viral warfare world.

"They're also some of the hardest _motherfuckers_ on Earth. Umbrella has facilities all over the world - including in some pretty rough neighborhoods. Africa, the Middle East, South America - you get the idea. Guys like this run security there and make sure everyone plays nice around corporation property."

"They're also good at keeping the locals away," Tommy added, fiddling with his camera. "I did some freelance shooting for a documentary company working down in Latin-America a few years back. It was a piece on corporate greed, malfeasance, the evil of the American dream - that kind of granola bullshit.

"Umbrella was building a chemical research and development lab in the middle of a jungle that just happened to belong to a group of tribesmen. We heard Umbrella was using the UBCS to scare off the natives. We weren't able to catch them in the act but we heard stories about rapes, beatings, intimidation tactics - even some killings."

"They're tough motherfuckers like I said." Hargreaves replied casually. "To see an entire squad of them just..._wiped out_ like this...we don't want to run in to whatever did this."

Drake was a little unnerved to see Hargreaves didn't seem at all put off by Tommy's story. In fact, the security guard had just nodded as if it was accepted fact. _Hell, maybe it is, _Drake realized. _He'd know them better than any of us. _

That wasn't entirely true though. Drake had never met a member of the U.B.C.S. before but he knew their type. They were the same type of men who were attracted to any kind of mercenary work. The type that no longer cared about the suffering of others or, worse yet, enjoyed it. He had seen plenty of both back in his old life.

_Two of them took away the only thing that ever mattered to me. _For a moment, Drake no longer saw the ragged, dismembered bodies of the Umbrella team laying before him. He saw Jess laying in their place - her face cold and closed, lips blue, blood wreathing her face in a nightmarish halo. _Two of them took away my heart and soul. _

Remorse twisted a cold iron in his stomach. He had been so close. _So close._

"Guess that explains all the hardware they were packing," Briggs muttered. Weapons lay scattered with body parts. M16s, unless Drake's eyes were already starting to fail him. "Good thing too. We could use the ammo."

"No!" Sarah held out a hand to halt the Ranger as he made to grab for one of the assault rifles. "No. There's too much blood around them. If these guys were killed by someone - some_thing_ - infected with RS then their blood could be contaminated too. Those weapons could be crawling with the virus. Nobody touch _anything._"

Drake couldn't stop the amused smirk that pulled at the corners of his mouth.

"I appreciate your concern for the group, Doctor Waxer," he said, "but sounds to me like I'm the only one here with nothing to worry about."

Without waiting for her approval, Drake crouched next to the pile of gore and scooped up a handful of spent shells. He rolled the metal casings between his fingers, nodding.

"They're cool," he said, bouncing the shells in his palm. "This whole...situation...probably went down a few hours ago. These fellas have been dead awhile." Something in his periphery caught his eye. "There's also whatever _that _is."

Drake pointed a finger towards one of the shelving units. Droplets of a thick, inky fluid were sprayed across the metal struts and wooden crates. The dark substance ran the length of the shelf, winding around the corner. Drake would have thought it was motor oil from one of the machines but the liquid was too dark.

_Can't be blood,_ he thought, studying the fluid. _At least not _human _blood._

"The fuck is that?" Briggs, who stood closest to the spatter, leaned in for a closer look. "Grease?"

"My guess is it's from whoever or whatever got into a disagreement with these gentlemen here." Drake let the casings fall and rose back up.

"Christ," Michelle hissed from where she stood next to Homer. "You think that thing is still in here with us?"

Drake noticed that comment had eyes turning towards the ceiling, necks twisting in every direction and hands gripping guns more tightly. Sheesh quieted them all with a shake of his head.

"I don't think so," he said and shook his head again when he was hit with a barrage of inquiring looks. "I'm not psychic or anything. I noticed the black stuff too. That's the second part of this little sideshow here. Come check it out."

Sheesh led them around the corner, following the trail left by the dark stain. It swept around the shelves and moved onto the floor. Here it was thicker and darker, leaving the ground streaked in patches of greasy blood. There were puddles and pools of crimson spotting the walls and floor as well. More shell casings jingled underfoot as the group walked down the corridor toward a battered steel door at the end.

_This is where the fight started, _Drake realized. The hallway turned off to the right, branching off into another long corridor. They found another body here also sporting UBCS gear and insignias. The mercenary's head lay a foot from his body. His arms had been chewed to the bone. _They got ambushed coming around this corner. What we found was their last stand. _

"Check it," Sheesh said leading them to the door.

The metal was heavily scarred, covered in gouge marks and slashes that had peeled away layers of paint and steel. Again, Drake was reminded of the impressions left by a machete or other long blade as he studied the cuts in the door. He followed the marks down to where the doorknob should have been but all that stood in its place was a mangled hole.

"They cut the fucking handle out," Sheesh said as he reached down and retrieved a warped hunk of metal, holding it up for the group to see before chucking it down the hallway. "I took a quick look outside. There's more of those black streaks covering the pavement out there but no body. Whatever carved up the U.B.C.S. team did it's work then took off. From all the blood we found they must have hurt it pretty bad."

"Put that on their headstones," Clarke muttered morosely, taking a final drag on his cigarette before stamping it out.

Drake shook his head. "There's too much blood here for it to have all come from just one source."

"Those things that attacked us in the subway, maybe?" Homer offered and Drake shrugged.

"It's possible."

The zombies were inhuman and horrifying but those creatures in the tunnels had been truly monstrous. Drake's stomach twisted painfully as he remembered the darkness where their eyes should have been. The pulsing mass of their exposed brains. The way their tongues snaked and lashed through the air. The way Scaggs' head had vanished in a red spray when one of the beasts sank its jaws into his face...

What had Sarah called them? _Mutations. _RS victims whose DNA had been altered, _transformed, _by the virus. Drake looked down at the bloody bandage wrapped around his forearm.

_I guess I've still got _that _to look forward to. Provided I can keep Gilson from putting a bullet in the back of my head the next time I turn around. _

"Who gives a shit _what _did this?" The muscular marshal boomed, stepping forward with his arms still solidly locked across his chest. "If those things got in here then God only knows what _else_ could be waiting to shake hands with us. Personally, I'd rather _not _be around for that meet and greet."

Danny nodded slowly. "We keep moving. It's not safe here. Clarke, how far to -"

The bulky marshal trailed off and Drake could almost see the man's ears picking up. Drake had heard it too. The noise was distant but closing quickly.

It was a sound as unmistakable as the Umbrella corporations red and white shield. It was a sound branded onto Drake's brain. A sound that, at one time, had told him needed to be elsewhere and _fast. _

"Sirens," he said.

"_Police _sirens," Danny nodded. "Coming this way."

Danny gave the door's mutilated carcass a shove and piled through with Drake close on his heels. The door swung out into a side parking lot. Rainwater runoff pooled in the grooves of the uneven pavement. A dumpster pushed up against the side of the warehouse was packed to overflowing. The smell wafting from its confines reflecting the weeks of uncollected filth stacked within. A trio of undead milled about listlessly nearby. The smell wafting from them was even more putrid.

A cruiser came whipping around the corner, lights flashing. The squad car fishtailed wildly for a second before gripping the road again and continuing, screaming, up the street. It was followed by two more cars, also with red and blues blazing. A convoy of SWAT vans sped past next, flanked by another pair of cruisers. The vehicles streaked up the street. apparently heedless of the crowd gawking at their passage.

Drake watched them go and felt a completely, utterly misplaced sense of hope flare in his chest. Hope was probably the wrong word to describe it but he had to admit it was reassuring to know there _were_ other survivors in Raccoon. Until that moment he'd been convinced that their motley crew was all that was left.

_Let's see how reassuring you find that in an hour when your heart stops beating and you start having an intense craving for brains. _

He shut the thought out. He wasn't dead yet.

"Clarke!" Danny barked though his eyes were still on the red and blue lights blinking in the distance. "Are they heading toward or away from the station?"

"The precinct's that way," Clarke answered excitedly. "They're heading for it!"

"Then so are we," Danny said turning to face them at last. "Michelle, can you make it on your own?"

"I'm game," she replied, her face a stony mask of determination. "You should worry about Sheesh keeping up with _me._"

"Either way is good for me," Sheesh said, grinning - Drake saw they were _all _grinning now. "I never had a problem watching you from behind, Mitch."

Drawing his sidearm, Danny started across the parking lot toward the sidewalk. The two closest infected turned his way with arms outstretched, inviting the marshal into a deadly embrace. He dropped them each with a single shot through the forehead. The third zombie was too far away to be a threat to any of them. Danny left the creature where it was and took off up the pathway.

Drake made to follow but reeled back as a thunderclap burst in his ear. He staggered back and would have fallen if Homer hadn't caught him. He winced and groaned, instinctively pressing a hand to the side of his head. It did nothing to quiet the frantic ringing rattling the inside of his eardrum. A shiver of pain tore through the side of his skull.

He looked up to see Mike Gilson standing a foot away and grinning wolfishly, a hideous, ugly smile that revealed all his teeth. A thin finger of smoke trailed from the barrel of his pistol, quickly blown away by the soft breeze. The final creature lay in the middle of the street, blood leaking rapidly from a hole in the top of its skull.

"Sorry about that," Gilson chuckled maniacally before running after Danny.

Drake touched a finger to his ear and it came away wet with blood. The shot, so close to his head, had probably blown out his eardrum. Sarah approached, her face a storm cloud but Drake shook his head.

"Let him go," he told her. "We don't have any time for this now."

He took another look back at the blood on his fingers before lifting his head to watch as Gilson raced up the street. Drake narrowed his eyes, nodding to himself. _I need to be more careful around that one. _

He ran with the others. They chased after the flashing lights. They followed the wailing cry of the sirens' song.

As they ran, Drake had a sudden vision of himself, sitting at his high school desk again. One semester he had taken Greek mythology as his elective - more as a lark than anything else. That semester he had learned about sirens too.

_A siren's song always leads men to their deaths. _

Sarah ran at his side. Her eyes were fixed on Gilson's back and it was a wonder the man didn't have to stop to pick the daggers out. He glanced once more to the bandage covering his bite. The bandage she had tied with care and Drake knew then that Sarah would try and save his life.

She would do it because she had failed to save this city. She would do it because she thought he had saved hers. She would do it because he was her patient. She would do it because she thought she _could _even if she didn't know how.

_Let's hope for your sake, Doctor Waxer, that's really just a myth after all. _

**Author's Note:** I'm back! I hope you all forgive my protracted absence. I also hope there are some of you out there STILL reading this! If you are, let me know by leaving a review. Another update will follow soon...I SWEAR IT!


End file.
